LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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Slielf'El..0.7^^ 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




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{^kt^UJ Gyn-n^ S^nMh dlcr^V)-L 



ORIGINAL POEMS, 



BY 



Betsey Ann Smith Roberts. 



PATCHOGUE, NEW YORK. 



1893 



PATCHOGUE ADVANCE PRINT. 




3 ?t"^ 



\<^ 



C'l 



Entered accordinc/ to Act of Congrenat, in the yenr IS'JS, hi/ 

Betsey Ann Smith Roberta, 

In the ojffice of the Librarian of Conyrens, at 

Wafi/iington. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 



A Memorial to My Mother. - - 9 

Aunt Amelia and I. - - 18 

A Prayer. - - 47 

A Tribute to Florence J. Baker. - 48 

An Old Man's Soliloquy. - 74 

A Prayer on Going to Sea. - - 76 

A Poor Man. - - 84 

A Tribute to Mrs. Dyson. - 86 

A Reproof from the Grave of J. T. 91 

An Epitaph. - - - 86 

A Hymn. - - 1 14 

A Hymn. - - 117 

Aunt Margueritte Hutchingson. - 118 

A Valentine. - - 124 

A Sinner's Confession, - - 124 

A Poor Christian. - - 135 

An Old Hen. - - 154 

An Experience. - - 157 

Bevis. - - 13 

Be Consistant, - - 88 

Broken Idol. - - 121 

Child of Sorrow. - - in 

Cupid. - - 145 

Dorset Boy. - - - 49 

Deacon Moore. - - 61 

Epitaph. - - ■ ' - 86 

Eyes. - . - 113 

Father's Request. - 159 

Get Behind Me Satan. - - 4 

Gold, - - 90 

God is Great, Man is Small. - 93 

Gentle Katrina. - - 107 



CONTENTS. PAGE. 

Hymn. - - 20 

Hannah's Faith. - - 110 
Hymn. - - .115 

Honest Tom. - - 116 

Happy Thoughts. - 119 

Implicit Trust in Jesus. - 71 

Judge not Dear Sphinx. - 37 

Jesus of Nazareth. - - 130 
Lines Accompanying Picture of Some Trout. 4 

Lines. - - 17 

Lines on the Death of "Gvp." - 41 

Lines to Send With a Patchwork Quilt. 45 
Little Horatio Smith's Address to his Father. 45 

Lines on Death of Little Raymond Hulse. 46 

Little Ruth. - - 60 

Lazarus to Temperance. - 68 

Lovely Eyes so Bright. - - 126 
Lines on Receiving a Hamper of Choice 

Groceries. - T49 
Lines Written on Receiving an Apron from 

a Friend. - 152 

My Two-Faced Friends. - 5 

My Snuff Box. - - 12 

Mary A. and L - 19 

My Sister Gus. - - 22 

My Plea. - - 23 

Memorial to Mrs. Charlotte Smith. - 56 

Man's Cruelty. - - 72 

My God. - - 112 

My Cousin Kate. - - 118 

My Uncle Garrette. - 119 

My Old Homestead. - - 122 

Memorial to My Husband. - 133 

On a Visit to New York. - - 43 

Patchogue Lane. - - i 



CONTENTS, 


PAGE 


Patchogue. 


139 


Rose Van A. - 


21 


Rules of Life. 


70 


Ruth. 


108 


Sand, Ocean, Sun, Moon. 


6 


Sarah Jane. 


16 


Self Examination. 


47 


Stomach Ache. 


109 


Spring. 


129 


The Milk of Kindness. 


14 


To Lynx. 


38 


To Sphinx. 


39 


The Widow's Lament. 


68 


Temperance. 


73 


The Soliloquy of a Dying Infidel. 


17 


Truth in Rhyme. 


80 


The Crusade. 


85 


Truth. 


162 


Time. 


89 


The Vortex 


95 


The Rich Christian and the Poor One. 


loi 


The Sinner's Friend. 


127 


Tribute to My Brother, Brewster Smith. 


132 


To the Clergy. 


136 


The Rev. S. S. Hughson, 


147 


The Song of the Dishcloth. 


150 


The 96th Psalm. 


156 


Why? 


7 


Widow Lyon's Memento. 


II 


W^hat an Old Horse Said. 


24 


What I am Weary of Seeing. 


36 


Written in His Album. 


67 


Wanted. 


79 


Written to Comfort my Cousin, Betsy M. 




Smith. 


100 



To the Memory of my Father and 
Mother, Mioah and Betsey Newey 
Smith, isrho, isrhile Hiring-, set a good 
example for their children by their 
untiring industry, frugality, temper- 
ance and a simple trust in a Divine 
Providence ; dying they left an un- 
tarnished name. May their souls rest 
in peace. 



PATCHOGUE LAiNE. 

There is one lovely spot 
As yet unknown to fame ; 
No stately pile in ruin lies 
At the foot of Patchogue Lane. 

The meadows are dressed in green 
With many and various hues, 
And our noble Bay appears 
In blue, etheral blue. 

The road is level as a floor. 
The fields yield choicest grain ; 
As yet no word was ever penned 
In praise of Patchogue Lane. 

Our peerless Bay abounds 
With shellfish of all kinds ; 
If other kinds are in the sea 
They are scarcely worth a rhyme. 

The Bay of Naples is rather fine, 
But meager in many a way. 
Poets that used to laud it 
Knew not of Patchogue Bay. 



2 POEMS. 

If bi(;x)ted Neapolitans would come 

And survey our Bay, 

About the one they left at home. 

It is little they'd have to say. 

When on Vesuvius' lofty height, 

As I viewed the Alpine way, 

I thought the scene was not so grand, 

As from Watch Hill across our Bay. 

The fleetest yachts are brought 

To compete upon its waters; 

Gallants oft win silver cups 

And present them to Eve's fair daughters. 

Not Venice with all its splendor. 
And watery streets of fame, 
Could make me for one hour forget 
The foot of Patch ogue Lane. 

Victor Emanuel's palace is grand, 

It is elaborate in every way ; 

But I had rather live in a clap-boarded house 

On the margin of our Bay. 

Upon our enchanting strand 
Lovers while unheeded hours away, 
Whilst cupid, mischievous elf, 
Prompts each word they say. 

Beneath those spreading willows 
They plight their vows of constancy, 
Enraptured by the music of 
Our lovely inland sea. 

Or in Maiden Lane they take a stroll ; 
There Alanthes are towering high ; 
Cupid hidden among their branches 
Lets love dipped arrows fly. 



P C E H S . 

Here rusty old maids and bachelors, 
Who have long laughed at cupid's darts, 
Succomb with grace unequaled, 
And bestow their hiinds and hearts. 
Youngs land on the North, 
With its hills of Coram sand, 
Is hailed with joy by mariners 
When nearing Freedo^n's land. 

Those southern hills in the distance 
Are old Atlantic's bounds ; 
It roars and breaks against them 
With an unceasing sound. 

On the East is Smith's promentory 
Studded, heavily with wood, 
And for generations past, 
Those grand old pines have stood. 

Blue Point on the West, 

Noted for bivaAves rare ; 

A more enchanting spot can't be found 

In this world anywhere, 

Romans idolize their Tiber 
But one peep at it made me sick ; 
Swan river surpasses it in every way, 
Save one — the mud is not so thick. 

Our Cove is really beautiful, 
And when some man of brains 
Clears its noble mouth of mud, 
It will have a world wide fame. 

No gin will desecrate this spot ; 
I pray to God there never may. 
And those into oblivion go, 
That are one mile away. 



4 POEMS- 

In years to come may Patchogue Lane 
And our beautiful Bay, 
Tog-ether up fame's ladder go. 
Amen, let all Amen say. 



Lines, accompaning a picture of somk i rout, 

to one who semt mk a fresm cod. 
Dear friend, do not take it amiss 
My sending you this mess of fish, 
Apprehensive that you were out, 
I waxed bold and send these trout. 
They are not as savory as the cod you gave, 
But are the very best I have. 
Like unto some folks I ween. 
They are not in reality what they seem. 
It is mete that a fisherman's spouse 
Sliould always have fish in the house ; 
So hang them securely upon the wall 
And you will have fish once for all, 
I hope when the Deacon this picture scans 
He will approve of this quaint little plan. 

Patchogue, Jan. zoth, 18?9. 



GET BEHIND ME SATAN. 

When temptations dire 

Set heart and brains on fire, 

Overwhelming every good desire, 

Say, "get behind me Satan." 

When all the powers of hell conjoint 

And bear heavily on thy weakest point, 

Whispering "jo^^s of heaven will disappoint," 

.Say, "get behind me Satan." 



POEMS. 

When wicked thoughts too base for speech 
And thy vile heart yearns to greet, 
Then kneel and clasp the Saviours feet, 
Saying, "get behind me Satan 
When thy power is almost gone 
Then pray for help to the eternal one : 
Believe, and deliverance is sure to come, 
And thou wilt sing the conquerors song, 
Shouting," "get behind me Satan." 

PATCHOGUE. AUGUST 8TH, 18S0. 



MY TWO-FACED FRIENDS. 

To-day if I were crowned a King, 
My two faced friends would sweetly sing, 
"Thou art worthy to be our King," 
And choice gifts to my feet they'd bring. 
Shouting, "long live our King." 

To-morrow if I were doomed to die, 
Not one of them would inquire why. 
But, "hang the wretch" would be their cry, 
"No tears for him shall dim our eye," 
"Its time he was dead swing him high." 



PATCHOGUE, JUNE 2ND, 1873. 



Is there not some spot on this wide earth 
Where peace and quiet reigns ; 
Where men will not receive a bribe 
For a little earthly gain ? 

Where gold is not all men's theme. 
Where deceit and falsehood are unknown, 
And all say what they mean? 



6 POEMS 

Where quarrels do not arise, 
Where all are striving with a will 
To j^ain the heavenly prize? 

Where the poor are not oppressed. 

Where the rich do not, by deed, word or look. 

Pour gall into wounded breasts? 

Where hatred dies unehcrishecl, 
Where coals of strife remain unfanned 
And all are in love immersed? 

PATCHOGUE, APRIL 4THi 1873. 



SAND, OCEAN, SUN, MOON. 

When God formed the mighty oceans 

He bade them roar and keep in motion. 

Unto them he said, 

"Here let thy proud waves be stayed." 

They never yet have .sought their ease, 

But unceasingly roll, their Creator to please. 

He bade the earth to yield its increase 
For the sustenance of man and beast. 
It has never disobeyed the divine command. 
But brings forth its fruit on every hand. 

He made the sun and bade it shine 
For this heretofore dark, gloomy earth. 
Most gloriously at his bidding. 
Its wondrous light shone forth. 
It commenced its unremitting task 
And for rest has never asked. 



PO EMS. 

He made the changing moon, 

Proud empress of the night ! 

And unto it he said, "Thy mission is lo 

Illumine and while away the dreariness of night." 

It changes, fulls, and wanes from year to year, 

Obeys God and has nothing to fear. 



WHY? 
Why do I toil and strive 
To house the things of time and sense 
As I know not the day or hour 
I may be summoned hence ? 
Why are my thoughts and time employed 
In gathering earth's deluding dross, 
When I may win an immortal crown 
By taking up the cross? 
Why am I so thoughtless 
About my eternal weal? 
Here moth and worms my stores corrupt 
And thieves break through and steal. 
My life is but a span. 
The years fly swiftly by ; 
I, that only mortal am, 
Must soon pay natures debt and die. 



POEMS. 



HE TRUE. 



This world is but a vapory dream, 

So few are in reality what they seem. 

Scores of friends will by you stand 

If prosperity waves her glittering wand. 

When your cash is getting low, 

Lovers and friends will from you go. 

It would be a miracle if one of prosperity's crew 

vShould loan or give one dollar to you. 

When a false friend deals a wound 

No earthly cure can be found. 

Friendship is of such fine thread 

Once broken it cannot be wed. 

All other breaches can be mended, 

Friendship betrayed, it is ended. 

You may try to forget and forgive, 

Full confidence wont grow again while you live. 

Do not be so conceited or unwise. 

That you cannot an open enemy respect and prize. 

He will not stab you in the dark 

Nor veil in smiles an arrow to pierce your heart. 

When you are down he will not strike 

But permit you to rise and resume the fight. 

An open enemy may give you a scathing look. 

And his words may be sharp as a pruning hook ; 

But you can trust him wherever it be. 

He will not deal treacherously even with thee. 

A false friend like Ivy will surely bring. 

Poison and pain to whoever they cling. 

They are heartless in whatever they do, 

They feel no regrets to drop an old friend for a new. 



POEMS. 

A MEMORIAL TO MY MOTHER, 
BETSEY NEWEY SMITH. 

Oft sitting alone at twilight, 

I sadly think and say, 

How very dreary and lonesome home is 

Since Mother passed away. 

Her step was light, her voice low. 

She had a smile for all where ere she'd go. 

In pleasant ways she did abound, 

And gave kind words to all around. 

In childhood she would with me play. 

And wipe my little tears away. 

She shared my joys and for my griefs 

She very quickly found relief. 

She was my best, my truest friend, 

Faithful and loving to the end ; 

So gently would she chide 

And all my follies strive to hide. 

When her days work was done 

She would to her room repair 

And, casting aside all worldly thoughts, 

Pour forth a fervent contrite prayer. 

As I knelt there beside her, 

I thought her grief was wild. 

For with many groans and tears she would say, 

"Father guard my little child." 

The pathos of her prayers 

I could not understand. 

With her hand upon my head, 

"Oh take, oh take my child", she said. 

Now I know the cause 



10 POEMS, 

Of mother's prayers and tears, 

For she was g-iving- me to God 

Whilst in my tender years. 

When I in foreij^n elimes did roam, 

I would think about my good old home. 

In faney I've seen my mother smile. 

And her lips move in prayer 

For her absent ehild : 

And when across the ocean's foam 

A letter came to hand, 

How eagerly I, its contents read. 

To learn what dear mother said ! 

And when again I returned, 

How quick my voice she knew, 

Whilst tears of joy ran down her cheeks 

Exclaiming, "Thank Heaven, my child I view 

You say that I look dejected. 

And gloom o'erspreads my brow: 

Alas, the light of my home's been extinguished, 

There's no mother to greet me now. 

Nothing could equal or excel 

My mother's love for me — 

Nothing but God's love 

For lost humanity. 

Shall I no more her voice hear 

vSo gently fall upon my ear? 

No mother now to share my joy or grief, 

To whom shall I go to find relief? 

To view her portrait on the wall 

Does bitter tears create ; 

My heart it burns and throbs, 



POEMS. 11 



Its tenderest chords vibrate. 

As I gaze upon her face, 

A halo seems to round it hover ; 

I feel as if my heart must break 

For my departed mother. 

Her last kiss pressed upon my brow ; 

Methinks I feel its pressure now. 

The saddest of all thoughts to me 

Is I shall not here again my mother see. 

In the village churchyard lies 

The form of my dear mother; 

Her body lies mouldering in the ground 

But angels around it hover. 

PATCHOGUE, JUNE 2N0, 1867. 



WIDOW lvon's memento. 

How could you break that cane? 
Desist, you must not laugh ; 
It belonged to the man I loved 
And he called me his better half. 
That dear old cane it was not much 
To any one but me. 
Often when I have viewed it o'er, 
How near my Henry seemed to be. 
That dear old cane is gone 
M>y loved memento of the past, 
And soon I too must go : 
Alas all flesh is grass. 

PATCHOGUE, SEPTEMBER 29TH, 18S8. 



12 POEHS, 



MV SNUFF noX. 



My dear old box, I love it, 

It often has stayed my tears. 

I'll love it though I am heralded 

With many scoffs and jeers. 

It never gets the blues, 

And vents its spleen at me. 

It is the most companionable friend I have, 

That is self evident I see. 

Oftentimes this dear old box 

Has given me relief, 

And when it has me a kindness done. 

It don't fling it in my teeth. 

When I am overburdened 

With unwonted grief or care. 

How often then it solaces me 

In trying them to bear. 

It never my character trys to stain, 

By calling me unappropriate names : 

Nor does it scold or lecture me, 

If I happen to be out until one, two or three. 

I will not my dear old box desert, 

That succors me in distress. 

I care not what outsiders say, 

I will my box caress. 

PATCHOGUE, DEC. 12TH, tS?0. 



POEMS. 13 

BEVIS. 

Bevis, though a dog she be, 

A useful lesson teaches me. 

She is satisfied witli her lot I know, 

Sighs not for gold or worldly show. 

Often her meek submission shows, 

By kissing the hand whence come the blows. 

I hope, that when afflictions come on me. 

That I may act as wise as she. 

She is true and faithful to a letter ; 

I wish that I could imitate her better. 

Her greetings are always kind and free ; 

She loathes cold cordiality. 

It is not in her heart to put on airs. 

Should my apparel be worn threadbare. 

She is far above bribes or gold. 

Her love cannot be bought and sold. 

Were I blind, halt or lame. 

She would love me just the same. 

She eats with gratitude what to her is thrown : 

She envys not the Pope of Rome : 

She don't get jealous and raise her ire, 

Because the Emperor of Russia owns a large empire. 

Should stern poverty be my lot. 

And I by my warmest friends forgot, 

There is one that will prove true — 

My faithful Bevis, that one is you. 

Bevis, though a dog she be. 

Answers the end she was made for better than me . 

PATCHOGUE, JAN. 20TH, 1SB7 



14 POEMS. 



'IIIK MILK OF KINDNESS. 

Don't sour the milk of kindness, 

The mess is always too small ; 

And in the breast of some I fear 

It never flows at all. 

Don't let the milk of kindness sour 

In your selfish reservoir. 

When one sweet drop of it would iill 

The sadde.st heart with joy, 

If a poor man owes you a little debt. 

Don't speak to him in a taunting way. 

Help him till he can help himself : 

In the long run it will pay. 

You and he were born, 

But as neither of you are buried yet. 

Suppose you let your kindness flow. 

And wait patiently for the debt. 

Should he never pay you, 

It will cheer your gloomy hours 

To think you did not oppress him. 

Although you had the power. 

You may be a humble suppliant. 

When he in a carriage rides, 

So keep the milk of kindness sweet 

Whatever may betide. 

One pound of self-forgetfulness. 

Mixed wath one of pure charity. 

Will cause the milk to gently flow. 

Try it my friends and see. 

Each act of kindness that you do 



POEMS. 15 



Increases that mess of milk, 
And they are registered above 
In words of shining gilt. 



PATCHOOUE MAY 1ST, .1875. 



THEY HAVE AN AXE TO GRIND. 

Not one moment's quiet do I see, 

Since I received that legacy. 

Folks, that I scarcely knew by sight, 

Are dancing attendance here day and night. 

When I am on the street it is the same, 

Those I never heard of call me by name. 

Scraps, smile and bow so bland ; 

All smiles and courtesy on every hand. 

Not a soul has said to me, 

Since I received that legacy, 

That I had no energy. 

Or was deficient in faculty. 

My meager words they say are wise. 

And laud my actions to the skies. 

The ladies too are loud in my praise. 

Declare I am the handsomest man of the age. 

I never before heard it hinted at any time 

That I was passable, but now I am divine. 

My table is crowded from day to day 

By those I have met in a casual way. 

For months I have not enjoyed a quiet meal ; 

I am bored to death — thats just how I feel. 

I'll give it out that I am near bankruptcy, 

Caused by going another's security. 



16 POEMS. 

T'will be a miracle when it is known, 

If I have one friend to call niy own. 

My windows on the strest I'll smash, 

And with old hats I will fill the sash. 

I'll break the chimne}'' and unhinge the gate, 

And a show of general desolation make. 

These flatterers are not worth as many straws, 

And resemble woives with empty maws. 

By daily experience, I find 

They all have a new or an old axe to grind. 

PATCHOQUE, APRIL 14 1883. 



SARAH JANE. 

Oft, as I sit alone and think, 

My heart it beats with pain. 

For then my thoughts do wander back 

To my loved Sarah Jane. 

Although thirty years have passed away 
I am still a love-sick swain. 
My love is of the deathless kind 
For my lovely vSarah Jane. 

She was all truth and modesty. 
And graceful in her mein ; 
I never have met the like of her, 
My charming Sarah Jane. 

Her eyes were black and piercing, 
They pierced my heart and brain ; 
The God above he only knows 
How I love Sarah Jane. 



POEMS, 17 

Her figure it was faultless; 

Venus she did outvie. 

I should not have known she loved me, 

But for her tell-tale eyes. 

But she was plighted to another, 

And soon in wedlocks bands were joined. 

He only received her hand, 

For Sarah's heart was mine. 

Soon as I knew that she was wed 

I crossed the briny main. 

And, in Australia's sunny clime, 

I dream of Sarah Jane. 

My hair is getting gray, 

My life is on the wane. 

But still I love, I dearly love. 

My long loved Sarah Jane. 

And with my last expiring breath. 

When soul and body twain, 

I will pray that in heaven I may meet 

My long loved Sarah Jane. 

PATCHOauE: AUG. 2ND, 1S67. 



LINES. 

God is just, he alone is good and kind, 

There need not one be left behind. 

He is supreme, will save us all 

If we eschew evil and on him call. 

He will surely take us through; 

All that is carnal he will subdue. 

Through Him alone can we be saved ; 

He it is that lightens the pathway through the grave. 



22 POEMS 



.M\' SISTER GUS. 

When my health and cash were gone 
And I cursed the day that I was born, 
Who was it took me by the hand 
And said that she vvoukl b}' me stand? 
It was my sister Gus. 

When other friends had passed me by, 
And none of my wants would they supply. 
Who was it cast a pitying eye 
And said that I must with her hie? 
It was my sister Gus. 

When my clothes had threadbare o-rcnvn. 
Who was it gave me of her own, 
And said I should not homeless roam, 
And bade me call her house my home? 
It was my sister Gus. 

Who was it cut her loaf in twain 
And said that I must with her remain. 
And bought good tea and rarities. 
My poor appetite to appease? 
It was my sister Gus. 

Who spoke to me of better days 
And paid my bills in many ways, 
And said that she would with me share, 
And raised me up from deep despair? 
It was my sister Gus. 



POEHS. 23 



Not while my hand can wield a pen, 
Or my tongue laud a faithful friend ; 
Not until I am entombed in silent dust, 
Can I forget my sister Gus. 
Time may forget its power and might 
On everything to cast a Might, 

But I never, never can foro-et 
The friend that never failed me yet. 
My sister Gus shall remembered be 
And all that she has done for me. 
May she immortalized become, 
And all that she for me has done. 



PATCHOGUE, MARCH Is 1878. 



xMY PLEA. 

Dear Lord make the path of duty plain, 

To it my heart incline, 

May I perform each duty, 

And with a willing mind. 

Make the path of duty plain. 

Help me to keep in it. 

And may the light by which I work. 

By thine own hand be lit. 



20 POEMS. 

IIVMN. 

I lonof for the morninij break, 
When Jesus shall his saints awake, 
And they shall leave their dusty beds 
And rise triumphant with their head. 

His living- saints he then will change. 
On Eden's plain they then will range. 
Yes, o'er those flowery fields they will glide. 
With loving Jesus by their side. 

Money will not answer all things there. 

As it does here in this world of strife and care. 

Jesus, he will feed his own 

No partiality will there be shown. 

Those that here were oft in need 
Shall there on Heavenly manna feed. 
All the faithful there may eat 
And cast their crowns at Jesus feet. 

We shall know no hunger, thirst or cold. 
For we will be safe within his fold ; 
And through eternal ages sing 
Hosannas to our Heavenly King. 



POEMS. 21 



ROSE VAN A. 



I am in love, I know I am, 

I never before felt this pain. 

Its little Rose that has me ensnared : 

She lives on Patchogue Lane. 

Her figure, it is faultless, 
She is superb, divine : 
To her will I my homage pay, 
I'll worship at her shrine. 

Her hair is of the golden hue, 
Her eves are hazel dark ; 
If she will not return my love 
Then farewell this vital spark. 

Her smile is so enchanting, 
Her words are full of wit ; 
H she says "no," when I propose. 
This world I am bound to quit. 

I don't believe she ever said — 

Its only gossips spleen — 

That she cares not three straws for me. 

But loves to drive my team. 






1 8 POEMS. 

AUNT A.MKLIA AND I. 

I have one earthly friend, 
That don't find fault with me, 
Because my hair is not combed 
As tslick as it can be ; 

Don't tell me I must dress with care 
Or I will never wed. 
She has a kind and noble heart ; 
Her brains are in her head. 

She is blind to my faults, 
Her's I cannot see : 
Thus we together live 
In blissful unity. 

Our cats and dogs don't fio-ht, 
As other people's do, 
For they imbibe our spirit 
And love each other to. 

Summers heat melts not our love, 

Winter's cold don't ice it : 

We always tell each other truth, 

Therefore don't have to splice it. 

Often we chat together 

Of loved ones that have passed away, 

About what they used to do. 

And what they used to say. 

And of that peaceful land, 

Where sorrow is unknown, 

And of the triumphant meeting, 

When all the saints get home. 



POEHS. ■ 19 



She is my one-faced friend, 
She never wears a mask, 
Covers all my faults with charity 
What more could I ask? 



PATCHOGUE, AUGUST 10TH, 18 



MARY A. AND I. 



I hope that God will give you strength and grace 
To run with patience life's wearisome race, 
And when you reach yon happy home 
Bestow on you a new backbone. 

I hope that when he gives you a new backbone 
That he will not poor unworthy me disown ; 
But deign by his holy and righteous will 
This hole in my stomach to lessen or fill. 

I hope that he will cleanse us'from all sin, 
So that the waters of life may spring within : 
And when freed from all earthly care and strife 
Permit us to eat bread from the tree of life. 



24 POEMS. 

WHAT AN OI.l) IIOKSK SAID. 

The other day, Charlie seemed to be 

In a very deep soliloquy, 

And, as I was passing that way, 

I thought I would listen to what he had to say. 

He said, "the reason he did not trot fast, 

Was because he could not forget the past ; 

And he never should live to be so old, 

As to forget how dishonestly, he had been bought 

and sold. 
Had heard men tell hundreds of lies, 
And seen them bribe their hostler on the sly — 
And all for the sake of a dollar or two. 
Swear that white was black, or that green was blue ; 
He said that he feared not the grave, 
As he had not a soul to be lost or saved ; 
But he felt no pity for unscrupulous men. 
That would perjure their souls again and again ; 
Supposed that when he had finished his race, 
He would go to horse heaven if there was such a 

place, 
And allowed that he would die as easily, when he 

died, 
As the men who told such monstrous lies. 
Those men are sure of having a good fire, free. 
Whilst futurity has naught for me. 
I have felt thankful to God many a time, 
That I was not allied to mankind. 
He gave them intellect, and upright they stand; 
Though made in His image, they break all His 

commands. 



POEMS. 23 

What God does, is done well ; 

But some men are determmed to go to hell. 

They have worked me many a day, though I was 

poorly fed ; 
At night I had nothing but the cold earth for my 

bed. 

It mattered not how hard I worked, 

I was sure to receive the lash, kicks and jerks. 

Often had I to stand for hours out in the cold, 

While my master was inside a filthy rum-hole. 

I have been forced by ungodly men, 

To desecrate the Sabbath, again and again ; 

'Tis their delight to spend the day at some rendez- 
vous of sin, 

Where they can swear, drink rum and gin. 

Outside, I had to stand, tied to an old dry tree. 

Not one drop of water or oats for me ; 

At night they would come out singing Bacchana- 
lian songs, 

iVnd accost me with 'Get up old lazy bones — go 
along !' 

Oblivious to all decency, then 

They would drive to the house of some courtesan. 

'God never repented that he made a horse. 

But at intellectual man he was very wroth. 

I should like to rise at the judgment day, 

Just to hear what some men will have to say. 

Perchance, my hour of triumph will then be, 

The good Lord may unloose my tongue and set it 
free 



26 POEMS. 

And place me on the witness stand,' quoth he. 

Some men will feel worse than they ever made me. 

jNIy testimony will them more appall, 

Than to see a hand writing on the wall ; 

For a elean breast of truth I would make. 

Worse than Belshazzar they will quake, 

When that great court day shall come, 

The number of judges shall be only One. 

Chattering lawyers will have to hold their peace, 

There will be no clients for them to fleece — 

Nineteen hundred years ago, 

Christ pronounced upon them a woe ; 

The judge will say to them ere long, 

'Lawyers, your occupation is gone. 

All causes here are individual ones ; 

It i3 not what this or that one done. 

Lawyers, to all eternity, 

Are sure of having a good fire free ; 

There be no Habeas Corpus there. 

To rescue men from black despair. 

The pros and cons used by men, 

Will have no weight or bearing then. 

The Code Napoleon will be spun out. 

Coke and Blackstone will get a rout ; 

Lawyers then can twirl their thumb 

And whistle twiddle de, twiddle dum. 



Years ago I was purchased by a prelate. 
And as I was soon going to the country, to his es- 
tate, 



POEHB. 27 

My heart felt lig'lit, and my spirits were high 
For to the din of the city, I'd soon say good-bye. 
I made a short prayer, and thanked the Gods 
That instead of hard pavements I'd soon tread soft 

sod. 
I hoped to be freer from toil and strife, 
And enjoy the comforts of a rural life ; 
I thought of the hills and valleys so fair, 
And I longed for a breath of fresh mountain air. 
To see the waving corn and meadow green 
And quench my thirst in the purling stream. 
Next morning we set out for the country, 
And I trotted along right merrily. 
Although my shoes were loose, and my feet were 

sore, 
Hope buoyed me up and my ills I bore. 
Many a weary traveler would not have held to the 

end. 
If hope had not sustained him and been his friend. 
It is well that the future is hidden from us, 
And hope given to cheer us that the heart may not 

burst. 
He urged me along at a rapid rate. 
For home he would get before it was late. 
I put forth all my energies, 
J3esirous, if possible, to please, 
But I thought I should fall before I reached the 

gate, 
For over two hundred was the weight of the old 

Prelate. 
As there is an end to all journeys below, 



28 POEMS. 

80 at Sunset we arrived and he said: -Whoa!' 

After dark- — what do you think?- — 

He came and drew water for me to drink. 

Then turned me into his neighbors corn I 

I never was more surprised since I was born — 

Told me to eat my fill through the night, 

And he would return for me at daylight. 

Ye Gods, thought I, what does this mean? 

Was this reality, or do I dream ? 

Has he put me here to eat a poor man's corn 

When he has bushels in his barn ? 

Only yesterday I heard him say 

That he had enough for years, stowed away. 

Before I would to hunger's cravings yield, 

I felt as hungry as any horse could feel, 

But as hunger knows no law, so I. 

There was no alternative, I must eat or die. 

It is almost impossible, but I'll do the best I can 

To give you a facial description of that man. 

Two small, sinister twinkling eyes belonged to him, 

And he had a round, broad double chin ; 

As to the shape of his prominent nose. 

It reminded you at once of a cockatoo's. 

His mouth resembled not that of Power's Greek 

slave, 
But bespoke at once it belonged to a knave. 
His teeth were white, of the Irish style, 
And showed to advantage when he smiled. 
He knew there was power in a scornful, or a win- 
ning look, 
And he was not novice at using that hook. 



POBMB- 29 

His smiles were of the fox and snakish kind, 

And his hair hung down in a que behind ; 

Around his throat was a white neck- tie 

Folded neatly, and he wore it high. 

His voice was a powerful one. 

You would think Jove was thundering, when he 

begun, 
He could pitch it to almost any key. 
At times it was sonorous with melody. 
I assure you it was bass when he took me to the 

barn, 
Just then he wished not applause or to create alarm, 
But it rang out as clear as a clarionet 
When he told his hostler to get up and get. 
I have heard different men swear in my time, 
But never knew one that was as proficient as he in 

that line. 
He had reached the height of sublimity, 
If in swearing such a thing Could be. 
At eleven he was dressed as neat as a pin , 
And he looked as meek and free from sin 
As the stars looked the night before, 
When I heard him lock his granary door, 
As he stalked forth in the height of his pride, 
He outdone a Gobbler at every stride. 
"'Come, Charlie, my good horse," said he. 
To-day you will visit my flock with me. 
His wife came out to bid him good-bye, 
"And O! adieu," he said, as he winked his eye, 
"My dear, you just mind your P's and Q's 
And reflect I've a bone to pick with you. 



30 POEMS. 

He kisFed the sisters in a fatherly wa}', 

And exhorted the brethren to watch and pray, 

And not be eager to hoard up gold, 

If at last they desired to enter the fold ; 

Not to engross themselves in worldly aifairs, 

But to give to the church all they could spare, 

And in prayer to their Saviour draw near, 

And seek for sanctificaticn here. 

Paramouut to all other sins, said he, 

Beware of the heinous sin of adultery. 

He said, whilst tears streamed from his eyes, 

That years ago he was sanctified, 

Although he lived in this world of strife and sin, 

He had long felt true inwardness within. 

'Ttis more than thirty years," he said with a whine, 

"Since he had committed a sin of any kind. 



Most assuredly all gccd men will pass through heav- 
en's gate. 
But I think it will be too narrow for that old Prelate, 
I have often heard women traduced by men 
That no good or wisdom dwelt in them. 
In a few words my opinion I'll give. 
A close observer I've been, whilst I have lived. 
And a silent witness to the treachery of men. 
I wish that I could truthfully say more good of them. 
Because women are more apt than they. 
Men adroitly strive to keep them at bay. 
It was not her that denied her Lord, 
Or for His life took a reward ; 



POEHS. 31 

She never nailed Him to the tree, 

She proved her love by her fidelity; 

Stood by him to the last, we know, 

And to the sepulchre she was the first to go. 

It was her that served that He might eat, 

And with her tears she washed His feet. 

Kneeling, she kissed them o'er and o'er; 

Perfume and precious ointment on them poured. 

Wiped them dry with the hair of her head ; 

'But she wasted the ointment so selfish,' Simon said, 

Men then as now, 

Were jealous of woman's superior excellence, I 

trow. 
And exerted all the faculties of their brains 
The spirit of women to enchain. 

His disciples never gave him shelter, mantle, or 
coat, 

Not one of them ever gave Him as much as a groat ; 
They thought they had gained a point when 
They brought in a woman for Him to condemn. 
'We found her in the very act of adultery, 
And forthwith brought her unto Thee. 
By the law of Moses she ought to die.' 
Impatiently they waited for His reply. 
Then spake the wonderful one ; 
'Let him that is innocent cast the first stone.' 
They were self-condemned, and one by one 
They went away speechless, not casting a stone. 
The scene is symbolical of the last day, 
When brutish men will have nothing to say. 
Their trying to make scape-goats of the feminine 
race. 



32 POEMS. 

Shows they have apprehensions of a very hot place. 

A cankerworm gnaws at the heart 

Of men, that basely act their part, 

And pour contumely in their rage 

On the weaker vessel, from age to age. 

In such men's compositions magnanimity 

Is found in only very small commodities. 

Candidly, my opinion of women is, I ween. 

That in all good deeds they do surpass the men. 

When I have been beaten unmercifully. 

It were wives and children that plead for me. 

I believe that most wives and children, when they 

die. 
Will go to bliss beyond the skies. 
And that the majority of angels there 
Will be wives and children, I do declare. 
Adam's sons are time sanctioned, it seems, 
To use their vivacious tongues and pens, 
To pour vituperation on defenceless women. 
They have exhausted that theme the truth to tell, 
That the stiller they keep the sweeter they smell. 
Anyone with discernment can see 
That between her and Jesus there exists a strong 

affinity. 
Adam was a coward, that they cannot deny. 
And his first-born was a murderer. 
What man was ever in pain, or near despair, 
That did not unselfish woman repair? 
It was her that watched o'er his helpless infancy 
And taught him to pray on bended knee. 
Again in old age to whom do they flee 



POEMS. 33 

For encouragement, comfort and sympathy? 

It's to forgiving woman. On her they can depend, 

For she will cherish and solace them to the end. 

Ah me ! both women and men, 

Shall have the same measure they mete here, met- 
ed again. 

If mother Eve was the first to transgress the law, 

It was her daughter Mary that mended the flaw. 

She gave as a ransom, her Son Divine ; 

He bore the sins, and gave life and health to hu- 
man-kind. 

And before man or angel knew what was done, 

Mary and Elizabeth rejoiced over God's only Son. 

Though here, by men, they are subjugated and ty- 
rannized, 

They derive strength unseen by man, from on high, 

A very few maledictions were pronounced on them. 

Whilst a score or more hang over the men. 

Women's strength lies in faith, tears and prayer. 

And ungodly men had better beware, 

And treat women with kindness and complacency. 

For in that land where fire is free. 

It's very few women I think they'll see. 

She is flesh of their flesh, and bone of their bone. 

If they do not repent here, hereafter they will groan. 

If the man that invented the accursed check 

Did not get his reward in this world. 

He most assuredly will in the next. 

Of all the ills that horse flesh is heir to. 

The checkrein is the most torturous it is true. 



34 POEMS. 

Why, I have seen horses fall down dead, 

The checkrein caused such excruciating pain in the 

neck and head ! 
I have heard that sj;ne philanthrophic men 
Are striving to annihilate them. 
Merciful men! Thank God, there are some. 
That are working hard to undo 
What that wiclced man done. 
I have been longing for years to die, 
And that check has been one of the reasons why. 
Read the Bible, and in it you will find 
That horses were created and dwelt in Eden before 

mankind. 
God told Noah to put the horses in the Ark, 
And see them safely landed when he disembarked. 
It was not a horse that planted the vine ; 
It was Noah not the horses that got drunk upon 

wdne. 
Rumsellers, usurers, and horse jockeys 
Will go to that arid land where fire is free. 
In that dry land, they will take a long dry sweat. 
They showed no pity here, there, none they get ; 
And a orlimmerino: vail, will them obscure 
From that temperate land of waters pure. 
All that they gained here, by ungodly ends, 
They would give for one quaff of water then. 
When my thoughts revert to this subject, 
It stirs up all that is in me antagonistic. 
We are bid to press forward and forget the past, 
As no earthly ills can forever last. 



POEMS. 35 

It would be much better for all of us, 

If mem'ry on some topics was more treacherous. 

We would not be happy, if we were kings. 

If we let our thoughts dwell on unpleasant things. 

Alack, he is a fool, and will find it so, 

If he is looking for a heaven below. 



I now belong to one Mrs. Vanest, 

She is neither a she bear, nor a lioness. 

Her actions will bear close scrutiny. 

And her motto is, 'Thou God seest me.' 

She knows that gratitude in my bosom dwells ; 

I love her because she treats me well. 

Tis kind words and acts that makes love endure. 

And a horse does appreciate good treatment, sure. 

Use a horse well, and you will soon find. 

That depravity dwells not in him, but in mankind. 

Though an old horse, I have had my say. 

It's soon I must die, and crumble away. 

But before I into oblivion go, 

I'll crave a blessing on all below. 

God bless the men, and their better halves too, 

And help one and all the right course to pursue. 

May they repent, be honest and live soberly. 

And all escape that land where fire is free." 



36 POEMS, 



WHAT I AIM WEARY OF SEEINC; 

I am weary, O, so weary, 
Of seeing monied ones in power; 
That do afflict the Lord's poor, 
iVnd increase their loads each hour. 

I am weary, O, so weary, 
Of hearing parsons preach, 
Who never give an alms 
Or practice what they teach. 

I am weary, O, so weary, 

Of hearing upstarts brag : 

Tis strange they can so soon forget 

They were brought up in rags. 

I am weary, O, so weary. 

Of seeing some folks cut a dash. 

Who had better pay their honest debts 

And save a little cash. 

I am weary, O, so M^eary, 

Seeing wrinkled ladies with gray hairs. 

Painting their necks and faces 

And putting on school-girl airs. 

I am weary, O, so weary, 

Of seeing old men try. 

By parting their hair in the middle, 

The young men to outvie. 



P E H S . . 3 7 

I am weary, O, so weary, 

Of seeing some folks throw stones 

At other peoples windows, 

But never at their own. 

SPHINX. 

PATCHOGUE JULY IS 1878, 



JUDGE NOT DEAR SPHINX. 

"'Dear Sphinx, I'm glad to meet you. 
Toiling along life's way. 
And, as you are so weary, 
I fear you've been astray. 

Now dear, dear Sphinx, my neighbor. 
Take no offence, I pray ; 
Lets have a confidential chat. 
As we go on our way. 

For though we are advancing, 
There's always a chance to stray. 
But hate was never, never known 
To show the better way. 

And as you are so weary, 

Come, tell me now I pray. 

Have you not been a stumbling-block 

In some weak brothers way? 

I fear there is a beam obscures 
And dims your visual ray, 
And that you see with looks askance 
Motes in your neighbors way. 



38 POEMS. 

I'll tell vuu what I think is best, 
I'm certain it will pay, 
It is ourselves we first should mend. 
And then for others pray. 

Then we'll not get weary, 
But rest will find each day : 
Now dearest Sphinx, I'm waiting 
To hear what next you'll say." 



LYNX. 



TO LYNX. 



'' Bon jour \ friend Lynx, 
(jreeting to you I send, 
Thanks for your kind advice, 
I will strive my ways to mend. 

I hope I'm not a stumbling block, 
But I will confess in sooth, 
A blundering block-head I have been 
From my earliest youth. 

Truth often causes hatred; 
Its infalible followers are few. 
More than once I have crippled it, 
Confess good Lynx, aint you? 

I, the chief of sinners am. 

And oft get from the track ; 

It is then God sends his afficting rod 

To chasten and lead me back. 



POEMS. 39 

Most mortals have some faults, 

But, good Lynx, I have only two, 

It is little good I ever say, 

It is little good I do. 

I wish that you lived near at hand 

To reprimand me daily ; 

I have a natural way of speaking truth 

That exasperates not rarel}^ 

Au revoirl good Lynx, for I am weary, 

One more confidential word with you. 

If we search well our own hearts, 

"We will find enough to do." 

SPHINX. 



TO SPHINX. 
*'Dear Sphinx, I am ever so happ}^ 
I've heard every word that you've said ; 
You need not thank me for my wisdom. 
For mine is a very dull head. 
I hope you never will stumble, 
If either's a block-head 'tis me, 
I wish we lived nearer together, 
How often each other we'd see ! 
I saw that you were very weary. 
Feared unhappy from what you did say. 
So I did it in neighborly kindness. 
To you directed my lay. 

If others part their hair in the middle 
We can part ours the other way ; 



40 POEMS. 

So we'll not get ant;-ry about it. 
For it surel}', it surely, wont pay. 

And eheeks that are losing their roses 
And beginning to get rather pale, 
Why a little vermillion wont hurt them, 
Especially if they are for sale. 

If people throw stones at our houses, 
We should not throw any at theirs. 
And if no windows are broken, 
I ask you the question, 'who cares?' 

You've asked me Sphinx if I'm truthful, 
To answer you this much I'll say, 
I think if we both would remember 
We've each of us asked 'will it pay?' 

Now dearest Sphinx, my good neighbor, 
Let us all our fault-findings give o'er, 
Instead laugh with merry contentment. 
Grow fat and be jolly once more. 

And though life be longer or shorter, 
Its good we should certainly see ; 
Now again dearest vSphinx I am waiting 
Another "kind answer from thee." 

LYNX. 



POEMS. 41 

LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. CAPT. DAVIS BAKER'S 
PET BLACK AND TAN DOG "GYP." 

"Dear mistress, don't mourn for me now, 

Don't mourn for me never. 

For I shall .be feasted forever and ever. 

I thought it was heaven when living with you, 

For I had plenty to eat and nothing to do ; 

I slept on your bed in the shade ; ate nice bones 

And thought no dog on earth had such a good 
home. 

The Creator knew what was for the best : 

I answered the end I was made for, and now I rest 

The hope of meeting takes the sting from adieus ; 

So look forward and upward, dear mistress do, 

For a prepared mansion awaits you. 

Notwithstanding I am speaking to you in rhyme. 

Do you realize that you are living on borrowed 
time? 

May your hope be confirmed and your faith in- 
creased ; 

May you grow in grace and have perfect peace. 

If the soul is longing for the sweet by-and-by. 

It is an easy thing to die. 

When St. Peter saw me he said 'come in', 

Although I was not a Methodist I had lived with- 
out sin. 

You have been a prudent, faithful wife. 

No man ever had a better in his life ; 

An indulgent mother, a changeless friend ; 

But you will not be perfect until Christ descends. 

I'll vouch for it search this world around. 



42 POEMS. 

No better mistress could be found. 

I did not consider when sporting around. 

That heaven on earth was not to be found. 

I sickened and died in a few days — alas I 

How sad is the thought, all flesh is as grass. 

To those beautiful bowers we will ourselves betake, 

We will walk and not weary — your new toe wont 
ache. 

There will not be any ingrowing nails to cause pain ; 

That kind of a thing will have had its reign. 

Pray, dear mistress, pray for the command is alway, 

For erelong there is coming a day. 

When the fowl of the air and the fish in the sea, 

Shall sing praises to God with you and me. 

The cattle on a thousand hills, the beasts on the 
plains, 

Shall graze on the fields of Eden again. 

And, according to his word, 

Everything that hath breath shall praise the Lord. 

I know that you was very fond of me, 

But I don't suppose you ever gave one thought con- 
cerning my pedigree. 

If you will ascend my ancestral tree, 

My first parents were in Eden with yours, you will 
see. 

Do not think that you have a cause to grieve 

Because my first parents were created before Adam 
and Eve. 

Dogs obeyed the Creator's divine commands, 

And their progeny have been fostered by his boun- 
tiful hand, 

When the flood came they were safely housed in 
the Ark 



POEMS. 43 

And landed unharmed when Noah disembarked. 
Good cheer ahead, dear mistress, patiently wait ; 
Soon Eden will be restored to its j&rst estate 
Then all good doggies, women and men 
Will live lovingly together in Eden again, 

ON A VISIT TO THE CITY OF NEW VORK. 

I arrived safe and sound ; 
Friends here quite well I found. 
About me have not one care ; 
Although 1 am here I'll soon be there, 
Nabobs and fools may like city noise, 
Country quiet I will soon enjoy. 
I detest this noisy place, 
Morpheus will not me embrace; 
Or if I get into his arms, 
Soon firebells ring out alarms: 
Then there is no sleep for me, 

Not knowing where the fire may be. 
Men singing uncouth songs. 
Cars running all night long, 

Horses here find no repose, 

Manifold are their woes. 

Its v^^ork all day and work all night ; 

Alas ! Sunday for them has no respite. 

Here woman's and man's greatest aim, 

Is the almighty dollar to obtain. 

When obtained will they be blessed.? 

Will it bring them happiness? 

Working and toiling with all their might. 

From, early morn till late at night. 

Imperiling both body and soul, 

To fill their coffers with dead gold. 



44 POEMS. 

The houses arc nine stories hii»"h, 

With steeples pointing to the sky. 

Running- up and down so many stairs, 

Daily my health impairs. 

I had rather be hanged or drowned 

Than stay in this noisy bustling town ; 

So must bestir me and get away, 

This clattering will kill me if I stay. 

They hurry to amusements of all kinds. 

Then hurry away to drink beer and Avine, 

No thing but hurry from day to day-, 

Even the dead are hurried away. 

A parson is hired a few words to say. 

He makes a short prayer and hurries away— 

The survivors heed it not ; 

Soon the dead and the warning is forgot : 

Yes, forgot amidst this racket and din, 

As though on earth they ne'er had been. 

Women flit their lives away 

Striving to be stylish and make a display. 

Take vows damning to their souls, 

Marry men they hate, but love their gold. 

The men work, hurry and prate. 

Regardless of a future state. 

Strain brains and nerves to the highest pitch 

To have a name of dying rich. 

They hurry and mingle in the bustle and din,. 

Plunging deeper and deeper into sin. 

Until death hurries them to that bourne 

From whence no traveler returns. 

A Letter Written to my Sister. Miss Agiista L. SmUfs, 

(•ew. YORK CITY, SEPT. 13TH. IS6S. 



POEMS. 45 

.LINES TO SEND WITH A PATCHWORK QUILT I MADE 
FOR MISS MARTHA BAILEY. 

I cannot see to sew as good or as fast, 
As I was wont in days that are past. 
Let the infirmities of age for me plead, 
And take my good will for the deed. 
1 pieced this quilt; shall send it to you. 
If I had a son I would send him to. 
That afternoon I stayed to tea, 
I assure you it was refreshing to me, 
To see a young woman act naturally. 
Common sense and virtue will prevail 
O'er minds where wit and beauty fails. 
Integrity maintained is a goodly prize 
Martha, you are lovely in my eyes. 



LITTLE HORATIO SMITH'S ADDRESS TO HIS FATHER, 

Dear father do not mourn for me, 

Safely I passed life's raging sea ; 

My bark is moored within the vale, 

I have no fear of storm or gale 

-Do not mourn or repine, 

A heavenly mansion now is mine. 

I was taken from a world of sin and care, 

Pull of temptation, sin and snares, 

To a land that is fairer than day. 

Be reconciled dear father, and 'amen' say. 

Just inside the gate in robes of white. 

Stood grandfather smiling with delight, 



46 POEMS. 

Said that his heart ov^erliovved with joy, 
As he embraced me, his dear George's boy. 
He makes these upper regions ring 
When he shouts, 'glory to heaven's king.' 
Gird up your loins for the hour draws nigh, 
When you to will share the sweet by-and-by 
Dry up your tears do not complain, 
Your loss was my eternal gain." 

PATCHOQUE JULY 10TH. 1S86. 



LINES WRirrEN ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE RAYMOND 

HULSE. 

Yonder little grave so dark and cold, 
It doth my darling boy enfold. 
His spirit far away has flown ; 
Oh, why am I left on earth to moan? 

Still I see his eyes so bright. 
His smile so sweet, his form so light ; 
My heart is riven with anguish wild, 
I long to embrace my seraphic child. 

Oft in hours of gloom I turn to see, 

I know his spirit hovers near to me. 

I kiss his toys and hug his shoe ; 

I'd not exchange them for all the gold in Peru. 

I would willingly lie down and die, 

To join my darling in the sky. 

No one can sympathize with my grief so wild. 

Save a mother that has lost her child. 

PATCHOauE APRIL 10, 18711. 



POEMS. 47 



A PRAYER. 



Give a pure heart O God, I pray, 
That I may not dread the judgment day. 
Cleanse my hands so that I may 
Rise triumphant on that great day. 
On my forehead put thy mark. 
Then I shall see Thee as Thou art. 
When my pilgrimage ends below 
May I to Thy promised mansions go. 



SELF EXAMINATION. 

Whilst I have been toiling to gain wealth, 

Have I loved my neighbor as myself? 

When I have seen him coatless, 

Have I done what T ought to do? 

Have I given him one when I had two? 

Have I exercised charity toward my fallen fellow 

men? 
Have I acted the part of the good Samaritan ? 
Have I into their wounds poured oil and wine? 
Have I always spoken to them words that were kind ? 
Have I visited the widow and the fatherless? 
Have I given succor to those that were in distress? 
Have I wept with those who wept ? 
Have I the commandments kept? 



48 POEMS. 

A TRIBUTE TO FLORENCE J. BAKER. 

Your son is not dead ; 

He is taking- that sleep, 

From which none ever 

Wake to weep, » 

He has gone to live with God. 

He crossed the river safely 

And landed dry shod. 

He lives ! he lives! 

And wondrous sights behold. 

As he walks along with Jesus 

Those dazzling streets of gold. 

He has entered into eternal life. 

And in a mansion shines, 

And with King Jesus drinks anew 

The precious promised wine. 

Sweet music floats upon his ears, 

With no discordant sound. 

He plucks those never fading flowers. 

That are only in Eden found. 

In those bowers he feels no pain ; 

He has no lonely hours, 

And he is singing "Halleluah!" 

With all his ransomed powers. 

There the table is always spread. 

The crystal fount is free ; 

He has ambrosial fruit to eat, 

It grows on life's fair tree. 

He lives — has gone before. 

And with transport he will g-reet you. 

When you land on that glorified shore. 

PATCHOGUE, AUGUST 8TH, 1876. 



POEMS. 49 

DORSET BOY. 

It was not a palace where I was born, 

But a straw-thatched cottage most forlorn. 

It seemed as if fate had decreed 

More thorns than roses for poor me. 

When I was born into this world, 

No golden cup was at me hurled, 

No silver spoon was in my mouth, 

Nor had one ever graced the house. 

The night was dark, a storm was wild. 

When I was bo.rn a poor, dowerless child. 

No demonstrations were made, far or near. 

To announce that I was here. 

Few greeted me I have been told. 

No guns were fired, no bells were tolled. 

Five years had scarcely passed by, 

When father in his grave did lie. 

Just ten years from my birth. 

My mother slept in mother earth. 

I had no home, no friend came near 

To soothe my grief or drop one tear. 

A well-worn bible my mother gave me ; 

It was my only legacy. 

Mother had taught me the Lord's prayer 

And that evil communications would bring a snare. 

The ten commandments I did know, 

But further than that I could not go. 

My education, it was small, 

I could not read or write at all. 

I laid me down upon the sod 

And raised my heart in prayer to God. 

The stars their vigils o'er me kept, 



50 POEMS. 

While so sweetly there I slept. 

When I awoke the moon was clear. 

The birds were singing far and near. 

While seated there upon the ground, 

I heard a distant rumbling sound. 

vSoon a nobleman came riding by, 

He stopped and asked v/hat made me cry 

In a few words my tale I did unfold, 

Not thinking he would prove to be my goal. 

"Jump in my coach," said he, 

'•You shall my little footman be." 

To London city I did ride 

Not knowing what there would me betide. 

He was the Mayor of that great city 

And gave me a home out of pity. 

In the garret where I slept, 

1 there my little bible kept. 

I served my master faithfully 

And many books he gave to me. 

The cook taught me how to read, 

Because I helped her when she had need. 

Soon as my days work was o'er, 

My mind with knowledge I strove to store. 

In the o-arret I was wont to read and write 

Until the small hours of the night ; 

Not thinking anyone could see or hear, 

I invoked God's help without a fear. 

But my master watched on the sly, 

And on me he kept a steady eye. 

With his little daughter May,' 

In the Park I often played. 



POEMS. SI 

1 was sorry when the hour come 

To carry little Mary home. 

For we spun the top and rolled the hoop, 

Talked of birds and then of brooks. 

When May was sick the nurse did say 

That she cried to see me every day. 

I used to pray should little May die 

That she might be an angel m the sky. 

This is a world of change 'tis true 

As I will shortly prove to you, 

For little May was sent away 

To learn the ethics of the day. 

My master gave me searching looks 

And said, "go bring me all your books," 

To the garret forthwith I hied 

And brought them down with feelings shy. 

He said that he wished to know 

Whether I had studied fast or slow. 

His catechism was very brisk, 

Thank goodness, not one work I missed. 

He said, "a teacher for you I will get, 

Perchance you may be a scholar yet." 

I improved every moment of my time, 

I hoped Fames' ladder I might climb. 

Seven years now had passed away 

Since I had seen dear little May. 

The servants were brushing and dusting each room, 

To welcome the young heiress home. 

I never had thought until that hour 

That she was rich and I was poor. 

I vsaw the gulf that between us lay 

And braved my heart to meet that day. 



52 POEMS. 

\ly master had made me his seeretary, 

It should have made my heart feel merry. 

My heart was wretehed it beat with pain. 

I prayed for discretion should we meet again. 

If she has or has not me forgot, 

To love in silence must be my lot. 

The day arrived and so did she, 

None longed for or dreaded that day as me. 

The deepest love flows through the touch and eye, 

And will reach the heart of low and high. 

She gave me a look, then proffered her hand ; 

Ye Gods! thought I, is this earth where I stand? 

No scribe, no tongue, no pen or skill. 

Can ever half portray that thrill. 

I saw no more of lovely May 

Until weeks, yes months had passed away. 

I worked as man never worked before. 

Whilst love without hope was feasting on my hearts 

core. 
Yes, I worked and received my pay 
And strove hard not to think of lovely May. 
My master was my banker, he kept for me my gains. 
But such searching looks he gave me, it almost 

turned my brains. 
It is true I had saved some hundred pounds, 
Notwithstanding the world seemed blank, and all 

around, 
My step grew limp, my cheeks were pale. 
My strength, health and courage failed. 
One constant thought, it harrased me, 
I longed for and dreaded the end to be. 
I expected each day to hear 



POEMS. 53 

That some Lord or Marquis was bethrothed to my 

dear. 
Suddenly my master was taken ill 
And sent for a counselor to make his will. 
Before that document was drawn 
I sat in his room and felt most forlorn. 
My master said, "make ready without delay 
And send for my only daughter May." 
I prayed to God to give me power 
To pass through the ordeal of that hour. 
Into the future I could not see, 
Not dreaming that bliss awaited me-. 
May was brought in looking pale 
And before her father's eyes she quailed. 
He looked at me and then at May 
And slowly turned his eyes away. 
He drew a deep, long, smothered sigh 
And thought, "who knows their hearts as I? 
I have watched them both and I cannot see, n 

Any attempts at deception or chicanery. 
On every feature of May's face 
A hopeless love I there can trace. 
The thought of sending that boy from me. 
Cuts like a two-edged sword I see. 
He has served me faithfully for years. 
To think of a separation does bring the tears. 
He is all that is good, noble and brave 
I am sure that he would die my life to save. 
The false pride of birth I will decry 
And for him a title I will buy. 
May dare not tell me the secret of her heart 
Fearing that I would quickly with him part. 



54 POEMS. 

I know her feelings every whit 

For I in my youth did loves cup sip. 

The one I loved I nev'cr wed, 

Ah I many years she has been dead. 

And as I have a soul to be lost or saved, 

My heart went with her into the grave. 

I loved her and do love her though under the sod, 

I say it with reverence, better than my God. 

I have traversed the continent and plowed the 

briny wave, 
But my thoughts would revert to her little, lonely 
grave. 

I do despise matchmaking and will not play a part 
When I know there is only a hand and not a heart." 

He told the lawyer to begin, 

And call the other witnesses in. 

"I do now publicly proclaim 

That on my secretar}^ I do bestow m}^ name. 

To him my houses and my lands, 

I bequethe them to him just as they stand. 

My gold and silver, my shares in the mines, 

To give them to him has long been on my mind. 

Without another thought I say, 

I freely give him my only daughter May. 

Confer that title on him without delay. 

He shall be a Dake, and a Duchess May. 

May Gods' blessing on you rest 

I have done what I hope is for the best." 

The day was set ; the news it spread, 

That lovely May and I would wed. 

The drums were beat the colors did fly, 

As little May and I passed by. 



POEMS. 65 

Guns were fired and cannons too, 

And fireworks set of every hue. 

No demonstrations were ever made for me, 

Until I arrived at thirty-three. 

Now all Londoners shout as I pass by. 

* 'There goes an honest man," they cry. 



56 POEMS. 



MF.MOKIAL lO MRS. CHAUI-OTTK ( :. SMIIH. 
Charlotte, dearly beloved sister, I miss thee% 
More than my tongue can tell, 
One preeious thought sustains me — 
With thy soul it is, it is well. 
Thou wert my faithful counselor. 
And as good as thou wert wise; 
A guide to my youth and the light of my eyes. 
Years have come and years have past, 
Since m}^ hand in thine was gently clasped. 
That look of undying love thou gavest me. 
Found an affinity in my heart. 
1 knew the time had come, 
Death was sundering us apart, 
And when that smile of satisfaction 
O'er spread thy lovely face, 
I knew that God had sent thee 
A portion of His dying grace. 
Then thine eyes seemed looking into vacancy 
I looked where thou wast looking. 
No one could I see ; 

Thou^ wast talking to Jane, John and Mother 
And seemed delighted to see them, 
One after the other. 
I stood by thy bed listening, 
Eager to catch -thy last words, 
When they came I had my reward ; 
They were "Jesus m}- Lord;" 
The last word that passed thy lips 
Was Jesus' name, 
I saw Him not, but He was there all the same. 



POEMS. B7 

Turning darkness into light dispersing the gloom, 

And smoothing thy pathway to the tomb. 

He came with a convoy and bore thee above, 

To sing of His grace and undying love. 

Thy spirit returned from whence it came, 

Thy body in the grave was lain. 

At the time appointed Gabriel's trumpet will blow, 

Then soul and body united will in immortality glow. 

By the God thou didst fear, my dear Charlotte, 

Not one of His children will ever be forgot. 

They are beautifully woven into his plans, 

He will have regard unto the work of his own hands. 

Yes, he that listens to Creations groans 

Will preserve their dust and watch o'er their bones. 

He never gets weary, He never faints, 

Precious in His eyes are the death of His saints. 

Praise His name. He holds them as the apple of 

His eye, 
And in His arms He will fold them. 
Till all the storms pass by. 
Years have come and years have flown, 
Since from my heart thou wast borne. 
My ever faithful, unliving friend. 
Having loved me thou didst love me to the end ; 
Even now the food I eat and the clothes I wear 
Are the outcome of frugality and care. 
I think of thee the livelong day. 
And dream of thee, the lonely nights away. 
Oft thou didst give suffering humanity a look, 
Then thy heart was moved and thy hand unclasped 

thy pocket-book. 



62 POEMS. 

His children were lacking- in story number two. 

vStrange to tell he had a sister pious and poor. 

vShe was sick and death was waiting at her door. 

When sent for, "let her die," said he, 

"The wind is fair I am going to sea." 

She died ; was laid in a paupers grave. 

He sailed to Absynnia and stole a load of slaves. 

A shrewd, enterprising- man was he in that line. 

His heart was as hard as adamantine. 

An honest farmer near this deacon lived 

And as upright a man, my word I give, 

As ever broke bread although his bread was brown. 

No better man dwelt within the Town ; 

He toiled early and late, 

Assiduously his fields to cultivate. 

The most examplary man in the Town, 

Was good, pious, old William Brown. 

"I must have old Brown's land," said O. H. Moore, 

-T have made up my mind and I'll not give o'er. 

As I have business that way, 

I will call on and blarney old Brown to-day." 

He never gave a poor man a smile. 

Unless he could use him to advantage awhile. 

When they had made plain intricate parts or form- 
ed a bevel, 

He would pay them a pittance and say, "go to the 
devil." 

He harnessed his horse and rode around. 

Stopped, alighted, smiled and said, "how do you 
do, brother Brown? 

Feeling neighborly toward you T thought I would 
call. 



POEMS. 63 

Perchance you may need some money this fall. 

You have a very nice piece of land, 

I should like to see you have a nice cottage on it 

stand. 
Your old house there will surely tottle down 
Before another year comes around." 
Mr. Brown after some hesitancy did say, 
As he brushed a tear away, 
"That old house to me is very dear. 
But will not stand much longer I do fear." 
"Brother Brown, do dry your tears, 
And for the future have no fears ; 
Build you a house broad and high, 
I'll stand your friend, yes, that will I." 
"I thank you Mr. Moore you are very kind 
But I have firmly made up my mind 
That in debt I will not get. 
I never have known its thralldom yet." 
"Brother Brown, in my heart I wish you well, 
Just imagine how a new house on these grounds 

would tell. 
And enhance the price I know right well 
Should you ever want to sell." 
"True Mr Moore my house is old and poor 
But no suppliant goes away empty from that door. 
My trust is in God, if I toil and wait awhile, 
That heaven will on my endeavors smile." 
"My good brother cast to the winds your fears 
And refl^ect you are advanced in years. 
Here take my gold build you a house 
And live therein joyfully with your spouse ; 



60 POEMS, 



LITTLI-: RUTH. 



A Moabitess, she was, poor. 

Her heart was riven to its core. 

Sad and lonely was her lot ; 

Yet by God she was not forg-ot. 

Contrite and humble she oft did go 

And tell Him all her g-rief and woe. 

She appealed to Him and not in vain 

He sent her to g-lean in the fields' oq-ain. 

King Moab was moved to pity when he saw 

Little Ruth toiling- for her mother-in-law. 

She gathered the barley with the greatest care, 

That her mother mio^ht have enough to eat and 

wear. 
Moab watched her come and go, 
About her lineage he was bound to know. 
When he had ascertained the truth, 
His heart yearned toward little Ruth. 
She gleaned the barley in a trice, 
And ere long was Moab's wife. 
vSo little Ruth was raised you see. 
By trusting God implicitly. 
And it is also true, 
She was great-grandmother of David too. 

PATCHOGUE APRIL 10, 1878. 



POEMS. 61 



DEACON MOORE. 

There is not a mortal in this world 

That should have more anathemas at them hurled 

Than Q. H. Moore, deacon of the church, 

That's going to heaven on his good works. 

His standing in the church is A No. i ; 

No business in the holy edifice can be done 

Unless the rich deacon, Q. H. Moore, 

Has all the say and takes the floor. 

He put the cloak of religion on 

To further his good works along. 

His money was not earned by toil and labor. 

He was a merchant and African slaver. 

One day a subscription was brought around 

And he felt sure his name would get a sound. 

He quickly put his name down; *T, Q. H. Moore, 

Do give an hundred and fifty pounds to the poor." 

As he sat in his parlor that afternoon. 

He said to his wife in an angry tone, 

"If poor relations come here for clothes or bread, 

Tell them to go to the poorhouse and get fed. 

When I give alms I mean that it shall tell. 

My name in the papers must get a swell. 

Otherwise, wife do you hear. 

The poor may go to Hades clip and clear." 

He married for money an imbecil wife, 

Over-reached himself once in his life. 

Was checkmated it is true. 



68 POEHS. 

The fatherless were clothed and the widows were 
fed; 

Thou didst care for the sick until the spirit fled; 

And thy hands made grave clothes for the dead. 

That they were decently interred, thou didst over- 
see, 

Telling- the undertaker and grave-digger to send 

their bills to thee. 
Thy left hand never knew what thy right hand was 

wont to do. 
No herald proclaimed it, no trumpet blew, 
Thou wast diligent in business not seeking thy bliss, 
Nor looking for heaven in a region like this. 
Thickly the thistles and briars in thy pathway grew, 
The thorns were sharp and the roses few ; 
The darts that were maliciously aimed at thee. 
Have rebounded and pierced thy enemies. 
The devil and his ungodly crew, 
Strove hard to annihilate thee, 'tis true ; 
But He, who notes when a sparrow falls. 
Carried thee safely through it all. 
Thy motto was to do good for evil. 
Speak the truth and shame the devil. 
Years have come and years have fled 
Since thou wert numbered with the dead. 
When the doctors consulted and gave their decision, 
That thou hadst not long to remain with the living, 
My heart put on mourning ; 'twas not bombazine 

and crape 
To be worn one short year for appearance sake. 
God knew how I felt and has helped me along, 
Praises to the name he cannot do wrong. 



POEMS. 59 

I thank him for all the affections and blessings he 

gives ; 
I thank Him, my sister, that thou didst once live. 
It will be shown when the world has its final exit, 
That it was better because thou lived in it. 
Farewell, sister beloved, adieu ! 
Ere long we shall meet at ihe grand review, 
And will see each other face to face, 
And every furrow that sorrow traced. 
Will be forever from our brows erased. 
Tears will not bedew our eyes any more, 
About evils that we could not prevent, but deplored. 
In that peaceful happy clime. 
All corroding cares are left behind. 
What I would is done ; 
I penned these measures as they came, 
A poor tribute to thy intrinsic worth ; 
I am inadequate being earthy of earth. 
But thou wilt be remembered for good by the Lord 
Because thou didst fear Him and tremble at His 

word. 

PATCHOGUE-. MARCH 15TH. 1S89. 



64 POEMS. 

1 have no use for this money you see, 

And it would do my heart good to benefit thee. 
Don't say one word about pay day, 
Just sign tlie mortgage without delay. 
You need not live here in obscurity, 
If you will be advised by me. 
Here, take this pen put there your name, 
All will be well, by it you will gain." 
Thus he blinded good Brown's visual sight 
And secured a mortgage from him outright. 
Moore t ./isted his mustache as he rode home 
Saying "I carried my point this afternoon, 
Old Brown was a toy in my hand ; 
Next year I will oust him off that land. 
Why he will not have enough to buy a new wig. 
He is as ignorant of law as a guinea pig." 
Ere one short year had passed away, 
Hyprocritical Moore went for his pay. 
Honest William Brown begged for grace ; 
Moore called him a scoundrel to his face. 
•'This mortgage I must foreclose 
And your extravagance I will expose. 
Oh, the pride of some poor men 
Does bring them to a sorry end !" 
Brown strove, but strove in vain to tell his tale 
With the incorrigible deacon he could not prevail. 
"This will learn you to live within your means 
And not to build castles in your dreams ; 
You have disgraced your family in a shameful way ; 
You should have kept out of debt is all I have to 
say." 



POEMS. 63 

All good folks were moved to tears 

When of honest Brown's trouble they did hear. 

It was useless for them to act or speak, 

Moore was rich and strong, they poor and weak. 

O. H. Moore went bustling around, 

And thus did his sonorous voice resound ; 

"Go home you laz};^ dogs and pay your debts 

Or you to with old Brown will be upset." 

The place was sold. Moore bought it in. 

None dare bid against that man of sin. 

The good work of Moore that day overcome good 

Brown, 
And he fell lifeless on the ground. 
Although Q. H. Moore was deacon of the church, 
I suppose he was busy at good works, 
For to the funeral he did not go ; 
Perhaps it was because it was only a poor man dead 

you know. 
Good Brown is dead and laid away, 
To rest until the judgment day ; 
Then his deeds will bear the light, 
Whilst Q. H. Moore will quail with fright. 
As to the amours of the Deacon,! have been told. 
That he was not like Potiphars servant, Joseph of 

old. 
Why should folks have anything to say 
If he pays the widow Jones' rent in a fatherly way? 
When sister Green is out of a prayer-meeting night. 
If he gallants her home, is it not right? 
Sister Green is timid and might get a fright, 
And would not venture out again unless if was light. 



66 POEMS. 

While Captain Stokes is g-one to sea, 

vSister Stokes is as lonesome as lonesome can be. 

Until she hears the philanthrophic Moore, 

(lently knocking" at her door. 

Could he do less or more, 

When sister Stokes is left alone on shore. 

Than relieve the tedium of those lonely hours, 

By taking her to some enchanting bower? 

The parsimonious Parson of Moore's church 

Did not take Moore to ta.sk about his good works. 

He had an eye to the good things of life, tis said, 

And kept a sharp lookout for fish and bread. 

When Moore in church deigned to pray, 

His parson said, -'Amen" in an approving way. 

He never offended a rich member of his church ; 

He smiled approbation on their g-ood works; 

He preached charity like others of his kind; 

To the faults of his dear flock he was quite blind. 

No man could see a guinea quicker it is true. 

When he looked after the summer revenue. 

His flock had no cause to wince or groan, 

He always preached in an undertone. 

And if two or three lambs went to sleep 

He said they had overworked during the week. 

Q. H. Moore's larder is well filled, 

His table, burdened, groans. 

He has little or no appetite, 

He loathes a honey comb. 

His bed is made of softest down, 

But gentle sleep does on him frown. 

Small comfort does this deacon take, 



POEMS. 67 

He has not relish for his bed or plate. * 

His days are most spent, he is getting old, 
And he dreams about men he has bought and sold. 
When he is awake he is enumerating in his mind, 
How he can secure and leave a philanthropliic name 
behind. 

He has decided to build a church, 

So that future generations will tell of his good works. 

He is determined that his name shall have a sound 

After he, Q. H. Moore, is under ground. 

He has purchased a graveyard plot 

And erected a monument on the most conspicuous 

spot, 
To show where Q. H. Moore doth lie, 
After he has ceased to sell and buy. 



I will drop the curtain o'er the rest of this pious 

deacon's life, 
But should curiosity constrain you more to know, 

ask his heartbroken wife, 
If she would she could a tale unfold. 
That would open your eyes and stir 3^our soul. 



PATCH06UE JANUARY 12, 1870. 



WRITTEN IN HIS ALBUM. 

My nephew is a sprightly boy. 

To compose music his time employs. 

May he like David pla)^ the harp 

And praise the Lord with all his heart. 

And when to manhood he arrives 

Be learned, discreet, just and wise. 



PATCHOGUE, MAY 23RD, 1885. 



68 POEMS 



TliK widow's I.A.MI':N'I'. 
Why is it mv lot to l)c; alone 
Without child or chick to cheer my home, 
With quiverini^ lip and eyes o'erflown? 
I Aveep over my desolation in silence alone. 
Since it is known that I am poor, 
The path, with grass is o'er grown, that leads to my 

door. 
In the days of my prosperity, 
Not one of those blades peeped out at me. 
My friends so called, I thought them true. 
They have flitted away like morning dew. 
They sat at my table, slept in my beds; 
Alas ! where now have they all fled ? 
They drank my wine without alloy, 
I joyed to see them full of joy. 
With a liberal hand I despensed hospitality. 
They professed friendship, boundless as the sea. 
Not one of them gave succor to me. 
They have left me to die in want and penuery, 



LAZARUS TO TEMPERANCE. 

1 am glad to know your whereabouts, 
And have read every word you; wrote. 
Rest assured you are not alone. 
In this the staunchest ship afloat. 
Truth immortal is the keel, 
God's promises the beams ; 



POEMS. 59 

She's planked by virtue all around, 
And perseverance fills each seam. 

The mast, Christ, towers high. 
It cannot be defaced by time ; 
Ever will that blood-stained banner wave- 
Float o'er the wrecks of time. 
The bible is the compass ; 
The course is straight ahead ; 
Turn not to the right or left, 
There's no sounding for the lead. 

Emanuel is the Captain's name ; 
He's invested with all power ; 
And he stands by his crew, 
In the stormiest of hours. 
Darkness may surround them, 
And seas run mountains high ; 
A light shines through all vapors, 
That faith can always spy. 

There's no Damascus blade so keen. 

As prayer by faith can yield ; 

It calms the tempest, soothes the soul, 

The enemy leaves the field. 

Cut all worldly moorings. 

If in waters still you'd glide ; 

Or if self, or self- righteousness remain, 

Hurl it o'er the good ship's side. 

The weapons used on board that ship ; 
Are not of a carnal kind ; 
But are overpowering through our God, 
Toward Satan and all his kind. 



70 POEMS. 

Keep on hating- the devil ; 
Don't believe in his report, 
That the ship is old and rotten, 
And will not reaeh the port. 

He is a liar, it never stranded yet. 

What is more it never will ! 

All on board will reach the harbor, 

Those the Captain's pleased to call. 

Keep on trying to be faithful, 

The end is drawing- nigh ; 

A chosen few will drink new wine, 

With their Captain by and by. 



RULES OF LIFE. 
Keep good company, 
Or none. 

Be an attentive listener, 
And bridle your tongue. 

Keep God's commands 
'And secure a good name. 
By honest, untiring industr3% 
Gain wealth and fame. 

List not to wolves in sheeps clothing. 
Least they make you forget 
That an old friend is incomparable 
To all new ones you may get. 

Visit outcasts often 

Having their soul's good in view. 



POEMS. 71 



Striving to reclaim them 
Will not contaminate 3^011. 

Let confidential friends 

Be well chosen and few ; 

Your aims onward and upward, 

Keeping right, not might, in view. 

Befriend the oppressed. 
Let the carnal minded see 
That a bribe will not sway you, 
And that you loathe usury. 

Keep good company 
In city or in town. 
Get up at sunrise 
And retire at sundown. 

PATCHOGUE, FEB. 10TH 1380. 



IMPLICIT TRUST IN JESUS. 
This world would not seem so dreary and cold, 
If we exercised faith — our anchor would hold. 
Onward we would go valiently and bold, 
If our trust was implicit in Jesus. 

Nor would we murmer at our trials here, 

Or be filled with harrassing doubts and fears, 

We would hopefully look forward to better cheer. 

If our trust was implicit in Jesus. 

The wind might howl and the rain descend. 
And death take from us our dearest friends ; 
The Comforter will sustain us to the end, 
If our trust is implicit in Jesus. 



72 POEMS. 

vSoon would our complaining- vanish awa}', 

In him we would have grace to strengthen and stay. 

And thankfulness would be our lay, 

If our trust was implicit in Jesus. 

Not all the votaries of sin, 

Nor troubled passions that rage wnthin 

Could shake our confidence. We will surely win, 

If our trust is implicit in Jesus. 

With faith for our helmet and shield 
We will rout all enemies from the field, 
The monster death, he too mu.st yield, 
If our trust is implicit in Jesus. 

If we cast our burdens on Him as he bade us lo do, 
Our raiment will grow^ whiter all the way through. 
And a dry path o'er Jordon will appear to our view, 
If our trust is implicit in Jesus. 

PATCHOGUE, MAY 6TH. 1876. 



man's cruelty 
"No flocks that graze the mountain side. 
To slaughter I'd condemn ; 
Taught by the power that pities me, 
I would learn to pity them." 

"No birds that fly from tree to tree 
vShall ever receive harm from me ; 
They warble forth their maker's praise, 
And I will imitate their lays." 

"God only gave them instinct. 
But intellect he gave to man ; 



POEMS. 73 

He never repented that he made flock or birds, 
But was sorry that He made man." 

If men would be bound to-gether 
In bonds of Christian love, 
There would be an end to discord ; 
Love has no cause for blood. 

Why do they nurse their hatred 
And fan the coals of strife. 
Until nothing but blood will satisfy. 
And in duelino- end their lives? 



TEMPERANCE. 



Let every man and woman 
Now firmly take a stand, 
And with redoubled energy 
Encourage the temperance band. 

The lions that seem to beset the path 

Are only cowardly bellowing calves ; 

God is the work, don't have a fear; 

Ere long the land will be rid of rum and beer. 

Men will not then be staggering through the street, 
As now each day we often meet. 
Wives and children's eyes will be dry 
When there is no rum for father to buy. 



74 POEMS 



AN OLD man's SOLILCX^UV ON HIS 9 1 ST BIRTHDAY 

Another year is gone, 'tis spent; 

Still borrowed time is unto me lent. 

I am decrepit and wrecked with care, 

With none but God to share my grief and cares. 

Life is burdensome unto me, 

Naught but wearisome days and nights I see. 

It is little solace that I receive or can give ; 

Oh, why am I destined still to live? 

Many years have I traveled on 

Since every loved one has been gone. 

Why does death take the young and brave 

And leave the old and weary to wrestle with life's 
boisterous wave? 

Oft I have followed to the tomb, 

Young men that were lithe and strong cut down in 
full bloom. 

And I thought, why were it not I, but a voice whis- 
pered, "Gods will be done." 

He has taken them from evil to come. 

My comforts all I have outlived, 

Except the blest inspiring one religion gives. 

I do not wish my loved ones back again, 

But I long to join them on that heavenly plain. 

'Tis seventy-one years ago to-day, 

Since for better or worse I took my lovely May. 

If ever a woman proved all better, that one was she. 

She lived and died without ever offendinsf me. 

Each day she gladdened the hearts of the poor ; 

None went away empty that called at our door. 



POEMS. 75 

She smiled as she gave and spake words of kind 

cheer, 
And sympathy filled her heart, her eyes o'erflowed 

with tears. 
I loved her, and my tears in silence do flow 
For her who died, ah me, tis years ago ! 
I long to end my pilgrimage here 
And join her again in yonder bright sphere. 
It is just twenty years ago to-day 
Since the last of nine children, my all, was taken 

away. 
None, save He who gave, 
Knew how I felt when they filled that grave. 
No loving wife to soothe this aching brow ; 
No child to call me father now. 
Oh how I long to be at rest with them 
And begin the life that has no end ! 
Oft do my feeble footsteps wend their way 
To the little churchyard each pleasant day. 
And read the name of her, on that moss-covered 

stone. 
That was flesh of my flesh, and bone of my bone. 

I sit for hours in that old iron chair, 

And live o'er the past with my loved ones that lie 

there ; 
And each loved face comes back fresh to my view. 
As o'er those ten^raves my eyes slowly take review. 
As night comes on and I must away, 
Each loved spirit seems to whisper and say, 
"Only a little longer dear father, then we all will 

come 
And bear thee away to our heavenly home." 

PATCHOGUE, JAN. 1S69. 



75 POEMS. 

A rUAVKR ON t;(>IN(i TO SKA. 

Keep my little ship and I, my God, 
From whirlwinds, roeks and shoals; 
Thy oceans are so deep and wide. 
Without aid we cannot hold. 

Keep me, my God, when storms arise 
And high the billows roll ; 
Permit me to reach my destined port ; 
Wilt thou the voyage control ? 

Keep me, my God, in perils hour, 

Let my heart on Thee be staid. 

And all my residue of days I will proclaim, 

Thy wondrous power to save. 

Keep the ship, my God, for it is but a speck 
Upon Thy boundless sea; 
Loved ones I ne'er shall greet again 
Unless it pleaseth Thee. 

Keep me, my God, into Thy hands 
My all I do commend ; 
The ship and I will safely reach the port, 
If Thou will take the helm. 



PATCHOG'JE, JAN. 23TH 13 



POEMS. 77 

THE SOLILOQUY OF A DYING INFIDEL. 

I know this sickness is unto death, 

And that soon of life I shall be bereft ; 

The grim monster is waiting- at the door 

To drag me from these mortal shores. 

The blood is slowly coursing through my veins ; 

Soon soul and body will be twain. 

My body is of but little worth, 

It belongs I know to mother earth. 

Alas, my poor soul ! thou art scarred and riven, 

And quails to appear before the God of earth and 

heaven ; 
Shrinks from the just sentence of the law. 
In which all my life I have tried to pick flaws. 
Yes, I exerted all the faculties of my brains, 
And all the talent I could attain ; 
Most willingly have I lain in the devils trance. 
To prove that all things do come by chance. 
For years I have been trying to prove God's word 

a lie, 
And that the great I Am was a nonentity. 
Adroitly I wrote some blasphemous lies ; 
O misery I My soul begins to taste the death that 

never dies. 
Those yet unborn will imbibe the spirit of my 

books. 
It fills me with horror now to at them look. 
For the precepts I have given to my fellow man, 
My conscience tells me I shall be darned. 
Ah, many souls will into hell be thrown ! 
For embracing the doctrines I have sown, 



78 POEMS. 

And they will my tormenters be 

Through a never-ending eternity. 

Soon 1 must cross that dark abyss, 

I have no pleasure in yonder world of bliss. 

It is now to late for me to pray, 

I must "Amen" to my own damnation say. 

Oh that I had power to plead and weep ! 

I see the falsity of deaths being an endless sleep. 

A reprobate am I. I have cursed the God of earth 
and heaven ! 

There is no forgiveness for me, I cannot be for- 
given ! 

It is too late. My poor soul, I have thee undone 

By striving to vilify God's only son ! 

I did not believe what I wrote; I w^rote for fame: 

Thereby have I doomed my soul to endless shame, 

My hands and feet are getting cold, 

If I had strength 1 could not portray the horrors of 
my soul. 

I see those that were faithful unto God, 

Crossing that cold stream, and they go dry shod. 

Those angry waves do me appall. 

Having despised God, I have lost heaven, lost all. 

Of what avail are all my jolly comrades now. 

With deaths cold sweat oozing from my brow? 

If I try to resent or signs of repentance give. 

They tell me to be firm and die as I have lived. 

Farewell to earth and all transitory things ! 

Oh death, I feel thy dreaded sting! 

Spare me thou unrelenting foe, 

Must I unsolaced into eternity go, 



POEMS. V9 

Vanquished at last? Death spares not me. 

No Saviour or redeemed spirits with greetings for 

me. 
I hear His children shouting, ' 'Victory over death ! " 
But I have no refuge, alone and of hope bereft, 
Deaths icy grip has reached my heart, 
My pulse has stopped, I must depart. 
Oh, my worthless life I have lived in vain, 
And roy just reward is endless remorse and shame ! 

PATCHOGUE- 1S72, 



WANTED. 

Oh, for some smiling friend 
Whose smiles are not deceit, 
And a heart full of love and charity ! 
I long such a friend to meet. 

I want an honest friend. 
That is honest in deed, word and look. 
And feel that their love is centered in me, 
Not in my pocket-book. 

Oh, for an honest friend 
Whose hands are not stained with theft? 
That can see things that are not their own, 
And leave them where they are left. 

I want a truthful friend 
That does disdain to lie, 
And seeks not anothers faults 
To blaze them to the skies. 



80 POEMS. 



TRUTH IN RHYME. 



Immortal truth is surrounded, 

It is driven to the wall, 

And leaves old and young 

Fighting for its fall. 

Most men for ages past. 

Truth on the shelf have laid. 

Believing it to be a nuisance 

And a detriment to trade. 

That it clogs the wheels of traffic 

By letting light shine in, 

And whispers when they are selling chaff for wheat, 

"To defraud is a damning sin." 

Liars are an abomination, 

Their destination is hell-fire. 

God above has so said; 

There is no authority higher. 

With the clergy it is unpopular, 

They say that it would not pay 

To preach the truth ; it would be preposterous 

In this enlightened day. 

The majority of them preach to please 

Unscrupulous monied men. 

Whether souls are lost or saved. 

It does not trouble them. 

In fact the old, old story 

Is getting quite threadbare. 

And is offensive in a church 

Where modern professors are. 



POEMS. 81 

The man that proclaims God'.s word in all its purity 

The gauntlet has to run, 

And all the devils troops are allowed 

To pelt them with their guns. 

If he fights for God's eternal truths 

And gives the devil a tight- fitting coat, 

No calls come to him with thousands a vear, 

'Tis a marvel if he gets a few groats. 

Usurer and horse jockey deacons. 

Will not listen to his upbraidings for sin. 

And if he will not preach in a theatrical style 

They tighten their purse strings on him. 

The militant church is languishing, 

And the few that do believe 

Are thrust aside to make room 

For a set of uncouth thieves. 

The oxen in amazement stood 

When Christ with cords came in 

And drove the money-changers out, 

Saying, '-My Father's house was built for pra5'er, 

you shall not in it sin." 
He has gone to see his Father 
And has tarried there so long, 
That Satan is poluting his sanctuary 
With ribaldry and song. 
But a remnant are watching. 
And praying night and day. 
That the author and finisher of their faith 
Will shorten his delay. 
His return is near at hand, 



82 POEMS. 

In the church he will begin. 

He will sift the chaff out of tlie wheat 

And destroy the man of sin. 

Shepards that are crying peace 

Shall quail beneath his frown ; 

Into darkness they .shall be hurled 

And starless will be their crowns. 

Lost souls through endless ages 

Will upbraid them in their ire, 

Because they did not tell them that (yod, 

Out of Christ was a consuming fire. 

"You greedy dogs, you preached for hire. 

We freely gave you gold ; 

You never said that God was a jealous (rod. 

His love was all you told. 

You were a vanting set of scrape -graces, 

Without God's call or knowledge; 

You went and learned to pray and preach bv note 

Where Satan kept a college ; 

You lead a life of voluptuous ease ; 

We purchased the highest pews. 

And you preached to please our ears, 

AAd we unwittingly applauded you ; 

Your cloak had the form of Godliness ; 

It hid the Creator from our view, 

And the creature you taught us to worship 

Witnessed swiftly against us and you. 

The subject of retribution you ignored 

Predicting for us fair weather, 

Its because you kept back part of the price, 



POEMS. 83' 

We are all here in hell together!" 

These are perilous times in which we live ; 

In lieu of truth men believe in lies, 

And cunningly devised fables 

Does all their wants supply. 

The day is fast approaching 

When immortal truth shall rise 

And the few that have lived it 

Shall have mansions in the skies. 

PATCHOGUE, MAY. 30TH 1873. 



84 POEMS. 



A I'OOK MAX. 



A poor man in this world lias little chance; 

Thoui^'h well he pip^s there are few to dance; 

His voice if raised is seldom heard, 

Thoiio^h wisdom flows in every word. 

A poor, wise man of old saved the city, 

jjiit his name is not told in song or ditty; 

A poor man will puzzle his brains for years. 

And invoke heaven's aid with prayers and tears 

To perfect an invention and bring it about. 

But artful and bold, the man of much gold 

Is sure to step in, with the wages of sin. 

And get the patent out. 

Rich men thrive on poor men's muscle and brains; 

There lies the secret of their gains ; 

Here the rich by the potent aid of gold out general 

the poor, 
But they will find that they and their gold will be 

out generaled at heaven's door. 
When a camel goes through the eye of a needle 

with ease, 
A few of the rich may into heaven squeeze. 
Should some happen to get inside the fold 
'T'will be by the skin of their teeth we are told. 

PATCHOGUE, AUGUST 8TH, 1S77. 



POEMS. 85 



'I'HE CRUSADE. 



Cheer up sorrowing mothers! 

Long- you have suffered wrongs, 

The race is not always to the swift, 

Or the batJe to the strong. 

The prayers you have made are registered, 

Your tears are bottled up, 

In behalf of sons and husbands. 

That were slaves to the cup. 

The rumseller is accursed 

For putting- the cup to his neighbors mouth, 

And God's judgment will descend 

Upon him and all his house. 

The man that drinks rum, 

And don't for his household provide, 

Is worse than an infidel, 

Having the faith denied. 

Keep faith in lively exercise, 

Be firm in your appeals. 

Ere long the battle will be won, 

God's enemies must yield. 

Lew^d men are imbeciles. 

Each year they number less ; 

Soon they will not have the power 

A woman to oppress. 

God is raising up Debo'rahs and Joans 

To scatter wicked men's plots. 

He will work by whom he will 

Whether man acquiesce or not. 

PATCHOGUE, MAY 11TH. 1874. 



86 POEMS. 



A ikiiu' ri'; TO MRS. dvson. 

Tis meet that tears bedim our eyes 

When a g-odly, virtuous woman dies. 

Her death was blessed, 

For she died in the Lord. 

She aeted well her part here, 

Believing hereafter she would get her reward. 

She fou":ht the ijood fig^ht, 

And Kept the faith ; 

Was made perfect through suffering 

By Jesus' grace. 

Triumphantly, she the victory won ; 

Here her equals were few, her superiors none. 



EPITAPH 



Underneath this cold stone 
Lies now in silence an old maid's bones. 
Living, she vented her. spite at old and young; 
No earthly power could stop her envenomed tongue. 
She would not be consoled by the Indian plan. 
That her mate was appointed, but she lost the man. 
One day as she looked at the picture of death. 
She became so enraged that she lost her breath. 
And fell into a direful swoon, 

Because the horses legs were not encased in panta- 
loons. 
She never recovered from 'the shock, 
But died and was buried under this block. 

PATCHOOUE NOV. »6, 1SS7. 



POEMS. 8 7 

"THE F0(3L HATH SAID IN HIS HEART THERE IS NO 

GOD." 

Does a fountain flow without a head. 
Or rivers run without a bed ? 
Could ceaseless oceans ebb and flow, 
If their Creator had not ordained it so? 

THE HOMELESS ONE. 

Without a home ! Despairing thought, 

For the which all my life in vain I've wrought. 

Without a home, my friends are few, 

Those I have with pity oft I view. 

Its little succor they can render me 

They too are children of penuery.* 

All hope now is flickering save one, 

I'll have a home beyond the tomb. 

If kind heaven so decreed, 

That I a homeless wanderer should be. 

Why was I placed upon this sphere, 

Where homeless ones are scoffed and jeered? 

I am called a fool, and crazy too. 

But God, my God will take me through. 

And with his poor afflicted people, I 

wShall have a home in the sweet by-and-by. 



88 POEMS 



UK CONSISTKNT. 



Be a man. or a mouse, or a lonjr. tailed rat; 

Don't eall yourself tliin while bl(Kited and fat; 

Boast not that your soul is pure and white, 

When a glance at it shows it is blacker than night ; 

Smile not and say yes, when inside you mean no ; 

Turn not your coat as each wind may blow; 

If you are a Christian your friends will show — 

Little straws tell the way currents flow. 

It is the two-faced, self-styled temperance men 

That frown on the rumseller in his den ; 

They are stumbling blocks with mouths of oil. 

Vote for rum and share the spoil. 

When such men pray for a rumseller's sin, 

The devil smiles an approving grin. 

Rumsellers and usurers are brothers and twins ; 

They are in the same boat and covered with sin, 

The devil is their father, they do their work well ; 

And sell soul and body for a potage of hell. 

The usurer makes his poor neighbors necessity 

His own accursed opportunity." 

The rumseller destroys his neighbors soul, body 

and all 
But the curses come home to roost in his hall. 
The greatest saint that in glory doth dwell. 
Strove not so hard to get there as these men strive 

for hell. 



POEMS. 89 



TIME. 



Time hurries along ; it flits away, 

Whether we work or whether we play ; 

The candle lighted will burn to the end, 

The ashes remain, the flame ascends. 

Time stalks on at a rapid pace, 

It has not, it seeks not, a resting place. 

Noiselessly it speeds, rapid its flight. 

Adding day unto day and night unto night. 

In its course it demolishes everything, 

The peasant and cot, the palace and king. 

The rich and the poor, the high and the low, 

Receive from time a fatal blow. 

Onward it goes demolishing all ; 

Monuments topple, towers fall. 

It buries cities from our sight. 

Grinds the rocks into powder by its might. 

Onward it goes, scythe in hand, 

Sending into oblivion the pride of man. 

Leveling all things in its rounds, 

Leaves boasting mankind to moulder in the ground- 



PATCHOGUE, MAY 3RD, 1871. 



90 POEMS. 



GOLD. 

Ah, gold how enviable art Thou! 

Millions have, do and will at thy shrine bow. 

Art thou at par, art thou high or low? 

Thy friends will never forsake thee, no, oh no. 

Man's love for thee passeth speech; 
They will for thee in rocks and caverns seek ; 
Their hearts are firmly set on thee; 
Gold, the death of thy last friend, thou wilt never 
see ! 

Men of every clime and tongue 
Headlong after thee doth run. 
Man}/ lose their lives in the furious race, 
But the survivors do the more warmly thee em- 
brace. 

Gold, thou wilt never want for friends. 

No never, until time shall end ; 

Thou art a welcome guest at the rich or poor man's 

door ; 
Gold, thou wilt ever have friends, of that thou art 

sure. 

PATCHOGUE NOV. 2, 1SS2. 



POEMS. 91 

A REPROOF FROM THE GRAVE OF J. T. 

True religion consists in charity. 

Though dead, that boon is denied me; 

I have done with earth, full well you know, 

So a mantle of charity o'er me throw. 

A dead man craves this boom of thee. 

Comply for humanity's sake, priththee. 

Without charity a profession is vain, 

Your hearts are corrupt; your tongues untame. 

It is a sounding brass that does not warm ; 

Or a tinkling syir.bol, devoid of charm. 

With satisfaction, you exult and -say. 

My soul to Hades has passed away. 

If such were my fate you would it bemoan 

Were your hearts not as hard as stone ; 

You would not be apt to pass sentence on me 

If from stains your own lives were free. 

Hearts are black and to Satan wed. 

That revile the living and the dead ; . 

He that expects mercy from devils of any kind 

Will find himself mistaken every time. 

Judge not least ye be judged, my friend. 

As all earthly judgments will have an end ; 

When none save Jehovah heard my sighs 

Have I prayed, and penitential tears dropped from 

my eyes, 
Oft I confessed my faults to God and you — 
In solitude I deplored them too, 
And Christ's promise I declared to thee 
That he would perfect what was lacking in me ; 



92 POEMS. 

True, I belonged to no earthly creed or clan. 
Yet I was a studious Bible man. 
And for the man of my counsel took 
The inspired word, the Book of Books; 
Proof positive in it I read 
There was no repentance for the dead, 
And as the beast dies so dies man ; 
Then I mused on redemption's plan — 
A boundless theme that none can span — 
I saw that only through Christ could I be saved 
And that he had conquered death, hell and the 
grave. 

In him I trusted to the last, 

That anchor never dragged, it held me fast. 

Methinks your malice would have ceased 

When you beheld my widow's grief 

And my fatherless children weeping o'er my bier. 

No, even then you witheld your tears. 

My spirit has returned to God, 

My body lies beneath the sod. 

Though my reins within me be consumed 

I shall leave this darkened tomb 

When Eden blooms, my body shall rise 

And meet my Redeemer in the skies. 

My exultation will then be, 

" Lo this is my God, I have waited for thee !" 

Speak evil of none, a just God hears. 

Let the dead rest until Christ appears. 



PATCHOGUE, APRIL 10TH 1877. 



POEMS. 93 



GOD IS GREAT, MAN IS SMALL. 

Your house is ample, a mansard roof, 
Your coffers are full, your safe fire proof; 
Your path is strewn with flowers as you go. 
And all matures whether you plant or sow. 
If you prosper in every worldly affair. 
Forget not God; give thanks for His care. 
'Tho' you talk and boast as you sit at ease, 
Your own right hath not gotten you these. 
Dispense with your self sufficiency ; 
God ruieth above, beneath, on land and sea; 
His eye is on you, so be on your guard. 
Two by six will suffice in yon grave yard 
To hold your remains ; so while living here 
Waste not your time 'tween cradle and bier. 
If you fare well and have good clothes, 
At poor friends don't turn up your nose. 
Do them good whilst you have the power ; 
'Twill cheer your heart in death's trying hour. 
Give to them now, you have not long to stay ; 
You brought nothing here you can take nothing 
' away. 

Be valient for truth in every affair. 

Do what you do by compass and square. 

Dark deeds when they are brought to light, 

Are always black, they are never white. 

Don't buy a grave yard plot 

And erect a monument on the most conspicuous 
spot, 



94 POEMS. 

So that after you have ceased to buy and sell, 

Your body in a princely tomb may dwell. 

The sum of all that will be said, if you do. 

Is that your selfishness and vanity out-lived you. 

Be zealous about your soul and be wise ; 

It is of no importance where your body lies. 

Balance accounts and see how you stand ; 

Search diligently and get a clear title to that better 
land, 

Delays are dangerous; see to it before it is too late, 

And know whether the devil has a mortgage or fil- 
ed a caveat. 

Only once can we pass through this world my friend. 

Do not hoard up wealth and clog your soul to the 
end. 

Consider your ways and let fall the penitential tear, 

Least you make shipwreck of faith and a poor mis- 
sion here. 

PATCHOGUE, JUNE 20TH, 1876. 




POEMS. 95 



THE VORTEX. 



About the epoch of man's fall 

Our northern lakes become enthralled. 

O'er them a spell was cast, 

And has remained for ages past. 

Perchance they have eyes and will not see 

The deception practiced by Niagara. 

The time is not recorded when 

She first began to draw on them. 

She hath gotten to herself a wondrous name ; 

All o'er the earth has spread her fame. 

Enshrouded in mist she stands supreme. 

Her kind of magic draws a mighty stream: 

Flaunting her rainbows to the clouds. 

She fascinates all gazing crowds. 

You never would think that one so proud, 

So wasteful, wonton and roars so loud, 

Disdaining all minor waterfalls, 

Virtually owns not one drop of water at all. 

On Goat Island scornfully she stands 

And scatters those waters with both hands ; 

Ruthlessly hurls them o'er each brink, 

She does not care and will not stop to think. 

From whence could she draw supply, 

If those northern lakes were dry. 

Those overburdened rocks down on that dark abyss 

The rays of the sun have never kissed. 

Their long drawn sighs and piercing groans 

Would melt a heart not made of stone. 



96 POEMS. 

"What care I for their groans," quoth she, 

"Am I not the voluptuous Niagara? 

I will cast around the mazes of my sheen, 

So that the worthies of earth are seldom seen ; 

Men of every clime and tongue, 

Headlong after me doth run ; 

Thousands lose their lives in the furious race. 

But the survivors do as warmly me embrace ; 

Their wives and daughters often weep, 

At lonely vigils they have to keep ; 

Whilst husbands, lovers and I 

Sleep sweetly in carnal security. 

These will find out too late 

That my love is feigned, they have my hate. 

When I have exhausted their store, 

And they cannot lavish on me more, 

Wives and daughters may cheer their dying hours 

I will drain others of wealth, health and power. 

Once under my siren spell 

There is no reprieve, I will bind them well. 

Kings by me have lost their power 

In the space of one short hour ; 

Their crowns from their heads I have torn. 

And boldly placed them on my own ; 

Their bosoms of all secrets I unbare. 

As they gape on me with mouth ajar ; 

I lay my plans as I go along. 

Singing sweetly to them enchanting songs ; 

What I plan I carry through 

Mv tears fall as fast as morning dew. 



POEMS. 97 

Feign offence and strike them in a rage. 
They fawn and kneel like a whipped page. 

I take health, wealth, take all. 

And care not two straws when they fall ; 
Virtue, truth and fidelity 

Have long held worship with me. 

Underneath my power they must lie 

Hidden away from my lovers eyes. 

Myriads that admiringly gaze- on me, 

In them a greater charm might see ; 

My reign would end -that is a certainty, 

Should they get into fashionable society ; 

I know hereafter they will me outvie, 

They are born of immortality ; 

I might have been as pure and chast as they, 

But 1 willed it not, I chose the forbidden way, 

After the last sands of my life are run, 

I shudder to think of my final doom. 

On God we cannot throw the blame 

He gave us wills, our passions to restram. 

My lovers and I do will it so. 

To have an unholy fill of lust below. 

We need not thus unbridle our lusts, 

It is as we will it if we are brought to a crust. 

Alas, few will sigh or weep. 

When slowly our corpse is carried through the street 

Our names will rot, not worthy of note or song, 

For defiling God's tabernacle, knowing it to be 

wrong, 
Our bodies will be buried from mortal eyes, 



98 f'OEMS. 

And our spirits go to the giver in the skies. 

An awful retribution we must expect, 

For the great salvation we neglect. 

In judgment our heads will hang upon our breasts; 

On our foreheads written, "the adulterer and adult- 
eress." 

Be gone maddening thoughts ! Avaunt, prithee I 

"With you I will not hold reverie. 

O, misery, misery, fetch me wine I 

Come spirits, that are congenial with mine ; 

I will have my fill, the present shall suffice for me! 

Yea, all gallants shall homage pay with bended 
knee, 

And bring choice gifts to enchanting Niagara. 

As unwillingly as the ox to the slaughter goes 

Will they their all on me bestow. 

These waters above, I will whirl and dash below; 

Here none shall discretion know. 

My mystifying wand I will flourish aloft, 

At all misery I cause I will laugh and scoff; 

The genie of morals, I will extinguish her vapor ; 

The pious make fruitless efforts my ways to span, 

I care not, fear not, love not, God or man. 

I will blind, madden, and enthrall. 

Until my throne totters end my empire falls. 

Pity? None pity me, I'll not pity show. 

But will scatter desolation as I go. 

Those lakes adroitly wrought my shame, 

I now gloat at their dying pains. 

I'll press them hard and will not stop. 

Until I have drawn out their last drop. 



POEMS. • 9 9 

When I have bankrnpts of them made, 

I doubt not they will come to me for aid, 

And like whipped spaniels crouch at my feet 

Expecting to receive water, bread and meat. 

My day of triumph is nigh ; 

As they have made their beds so let them lie ; 

I'll tell them they should have housed their waters 

And kept the vows they made at the hymenial alter. 

I have no more commands, in vain they sue. 

Begone! Adieu." 

PATCHOQUE, SEPT. leTH,1874. 



100 POEMS, 



WRITTKN TO COMFORT .MV COUSIN UETSKV M. SMIJIl. 

Dear Bet, though all your earthly friends fail you. 

You to yourself may still remain true ; 

Your heavenly father will never forsake thee; 

He will sustain you all the way through ; 

Though each day some new trial for you has its 

birth, 
And the castles that you build are brought to the 

earth, 
If all proves abortive whatever you do, 
Is there not a small voice w^hispereth, "He careth 

for you?" 
The things of this earth are only glittering toys, 
In them can be found no true lasting joys ; 
They cause our thoughts to wonder when striving 

to pray, 
And they put far off the evil day ; 
You know not now, but hereafter shall know. 
Why all your endeavors prove sorrow^ and woe ; 
Dear child of affection I hope that when your last 

sands do run 
You will be ready to go, yes, joyfully home ; 
When on your brow death's cold damp is set, 
May the pearly gates open to receive you, dear Bet; 
Your eyes will be closed on all that here caused you 

pain, 
Your last battle will be fought and the victory gained. 

PATCHOGUE, JAN. 18TH, 1868. 



POEMS. 10^ 



THE RICH CHRISTIAN AND THE POOR ONE. 

One pleasant morn at Sliaronville 
The sun shone bright o'er plain and hill ; 
All nature seemed to smile and say, 
''What a glorious Sabbath day!" 

The birds were happy in the boughs, 
Singing songs — God taught them how ; 
A beautiful lesson they teach man, 
Warbling forth praise to the great I am. 

The bells were tolled with a right good will, 
Inviting the inhabitants to church at Sharon ville. 
Echoing, "six days you have for work. 
This is the seventh, come to church." 

Being a stranger in that town 

I entered a friend's meeting and sat down; 

Taking a seat near the door, 

I scanned the audience, the rich and poor. 

Silence for a short time reigned, 

Then slowly rose a buxom dame ; 

She said her heart was full of thankfulness, 

For being present her feelings to express. 

"I don't see how folks can unthankful be 

I trust in God ; he witholds no good thing from me. 

I thank him for all I have and am, 

Yes, for every breath of air. 



102 POEMS. 

"He has to me the aSvSurance given 

That I shall wear an immortal crown in heaven ; 

I have not a doubt that he loves me, 

For all my life he has given me prosperity. 

"I hurry my maid with her works and cares, 
So she can dress me neat and comb my hair; 
I order my carriage at half past nine, 
For I will be here in ample time. 

"I will come to church, I have all things arranged, 
Why all do not come to God's house, to me it is 

strange. 
Oh it is delightful, thank God I am here, 
I shall reach heaven I have not a doubt or a fear. 

In a retired corner another soon arose, 

With angelic features, gray hair and spotless clothes ; 

Her voice was sweet, subdued its tones, 

And on her brow truth sat enthroned. 

She said, ' 'my heart feels sad and lonely in my breast, 
But I do feel thankful for a day of rest ; 
All the week I have worked for Mary Round 
She has just given her testimon}^ and sat down." 

"As I was putting on my hat to go away 

Mary said, 'come next week Eliza and get thy pay,' 

I told her I had but little meal wherewith to make 

bread. 
'I cannot attend to any more business this week 

Eliza,' she said. 



POEMS. 103 

"She would forego worldly affairs for the week 
To-morrow will be the Sabbath, she intended to 

speak 
She must have rest and compose her thoughts 
So that she would speak wisely and just as she ought. 

"I do not wish to speak disparagingly of Mary 

Round, 
She is noted for piety through the town. 
Has always had a well provisioned home, 
Her stomach loathes a honey comb. 
"A rich man's daughter, a rich man's wife, 
She never toiled for a cent in her life, 
Never had the meal in the barrel low, 
Or oil in the cruse so spent it could not flow. 

"In love and gratitude to God she says she is wed ; 
Supposing her soul was in my soul's stead ; 
Would she be so full of love and gratitude, 
If things were reversed and she stood in my shoes? 

"I do not doubt the goodness of God in all his wa3^s. 
Or I should not have walked three miles to meet- 
ing to-day; 
But why he turns all sweets into gall for me. 
Is one of his great mysteries into the which I can- 
not see. 

"I hope that when I have had my share of earthly 

ills, 
That God will resign me to his holy will ; 
And when I cease to have a will of my own. 
His mysteries to me he will make known. 



104 POEMS. 

"No I do not doubt my faith is implicit in God 
Thoujrh all my life I have felt his chasteninj^; rod; 
My husband years ago was summoned away, 
My only child was born a cripple, he is one to-day. 

"I have always taught my son to say, 

Thank God for everything, come what may ; 

The other da}' I remained silent when he hobbled 

in to me 
'Thank God, mother, the cow is dead,' said he. 

'•The weather it was getting cold 

I intended with the money from butter I sold, 

To have laid every cent of it by 

And bought coal and wood for winter was nigh. 

"Most of you have known me for years, 
I have worked for nearly every family here ; 
You remember the year the cholera raged 
And I was left fatherless and motherless at a tender 
age? 

"This morning I kneaded all the flour I had into a 

cake 
Put it into the oven and watched it as it slowly baked, 
I thought that when Eben and I ate it, it was the 

last 
And until God sent us more he and I must fast. 

"Our breakfast was meagre, little I took; 
My child had such an emaciated look, 
I felt anxious, weary and sad? 
A mothers heart yearned o'er the lad. 



POEMS. 105 

"I asked a blessing heartily o'er that meal, 
Oh God, thou knowest just how I feel ; 
Make the oil and flour hold out, 
Thou art the widow's God I do not doubt. 

I was thinking of God's dealings with me as I came 

along, 
The enemy bade me leap into the river and end my 

wrongs ; 
I knelt neath the shade of those old pine trees 
And prayed the Lord to strengthen and give me 

victory. 

"Fight for me : let temptations flee away; 
Help me with Thy servant Job to say, 
'Though thou slay me yet will I in thee trust, 
Thou art God I am but dust.' 

"Strengthened I rose and looked around. 
And lo, a little way off upon the ground 
This ten dollar gold piece you all may see ; 
Does anyone doubt God sent it to me? 

"He has succored me in many a trying hour; 
In answer to prayer I can now buy oil and flour : 
Full I return though empty I came, 
Blessed forever be his name !" 

PATCHOGUE, MARCH 22ND,1871. 



106 POEMS, 



QUERY. 



There ivS a mystery 

That I should like to solve, 

Why a sinner after he is dead, 

Should have a lying gravestone at his head. 

In the village churchyard 
Where many sinners lie, 
Why nearly all the epitaphs, 
About the dead do lie. 

It is only mocking God 

By putting up such lies. 

For when he comes to raise the dead, 

They will be the last to rise. 



AN EPITAPH. 



Step lightly and let fall a tear 
For an honest man lies entombed here. 
He lived and died poor but not unwise 
Although he had no treasure here 
He had one in the skies. 



PATOHOGUE, AUG. 4TH,1875. 



•POEMS. 107 



GENTLE KATRINA. 



Come my gentle Katrina, go with me 
To California's shore ! 
Those mines are never-ending, 
They are full of golden ore. 

I know the thought of parting 
With those we hold most dear, 
Will ring our hearts with anguish, 
And unbidden will come the tears. 

But my arms are strong, my heart is brave, 
I was not born to be poverty's slave ; 
We will go to Columbia, 'tis freedoms shore, 
And I will soon drive poverty from our door. 

Come, my gentle Katrina, listen to my pleadings, 
For 'tis the purest love inspires my speaking ; 
Venture now your all with me 
And we will cross the raging sea. 

Come, my darling, go with me ! 
Here we shall have naught but want and poverty 
I will shake those mountains through a sive 
That we in comfort soon may live. 

PATCHOGUE, 1872. 



108 POEMS.- 



KUTM. 

'Tis many years, my dearest Ruth, 
Since our last interview ; 
I went away with blighted hopes 
And left my heart with yon. 

'Tis said that absence conquers love. 
But, dear Ruth, it is not true. 
For what have I not done 
To divert my thoughts from you. 

It was when I knew, dear Ruth, 
That you and I must sever, 
I lost all hope of earthly happiness 
Nor have I found it ever. 

The reason I loved you, Ruth, 
I never could one give. 
But you are all the world to me ;' 
Without you how can I live ? 

The ocean oft has rolled between 
You and me, dear .Ruth, 
I must see you once more before I die, 
Cost what it will in truth. 

I have been in foreign climes 
And seen things old and new. 
But my thoughts would wonder back, 
My dearest Ruth, to you. 



POEMS. 109 

I have been on mountains highest peaks 
Among the ice and snow, 
To stop this endless thinking, 
But alas its been no go. 

I have been in lurid climes, 
Where the rills were scorched and dry. 
But my cheeks with tears for you were wet, 
And bitter were ray sighs. 

I have traveled for my health I've said, 

But it was all a blind, 

A hopeless love is my complaint 

For the girl I left behind. 

PATCHOGUE, AUGUST 22, 1S74, 



STOMACH-ACHE. 

I've had an aching heart and a throbing brain, 
But they are no comparison to my present pain. 
An oath I can conscientiously take, 
That no other pain is as excruciating as stomach- 
ache. 

For days I have had no rest 

The doctors have almost physicked me to death ; 
All night long I am awake 
With this tormenting stomach-ache. 
If I do not find relief 
I shall die with pain and not with grief, 
I care not where my spirit shall itself betake, 
If it only reaches a land where there is no stomach- 
ache. 



110 POEMS. 



HANNAH S FAITH. 



When piou.s Hannah of old was won't to pray 

She exercised, faith in the bidden way; 

She prayed in her heart, no voice was heard, 

By faith she in silence took God at his word. 

In bitterness of soul in secret she prayed 

That God would take her reproach away ; 

She asked not for gold, nor silver, nor acres of sod 

But a child that she might dedicate to God. 

She prayed to God to give her a son, 

She prayed in faith and it was done. 

God witnessed her sorrow and answered her prayer. 

For next year with joy young Samuel she bear. 

She believed without doubting that God's word 

was true, 
Ask whatsoever you will in faith it shall be done 

unto you, 
When mother's complain that their prayers are not 

heard 
Do they exercise faith as told in his word? 
The prayers of faith will never fall to the ground, 
Though it may not be answered until years roll 

around. 



POEMS, ■ 111 



CHILD OF SORROW. 



Child of sorrow upwards look, 
Though oft you taste the bitter cup ; 
Jesus knows it all, 
He drank the wormwood and the gall. 

Child of sorrow, upward look, 
Though drain you must the bitter cup ; 
Jesus he is good and wise. 
He sends your blessings in disguise. 

Child of sorrow upward look, 
Your name is registered in his book ; 
Though torn and bruised like a reed, 
Jesus he did for you bleed. 

Child of sorrow upward raise your eyes, 
Your prayers and tears have reached the skies 
Jesus he does for you care. 
You his glory soon shall share. 

Child of sorrow soon you will find rest, 
Yes in heaven you will be blest ; 
Beyond the reach of care and pain 
There the whole story will be explained. 

PATCHOGUE, JULY 7TH, 1867. 



112 POEMS. 



MV GOD. 

Oh God, my God, of Thee I'll sing. 
My ever thoughtful friend ; 
I alone on Thee depend, 
Thou wilt keep me to the end. 

Oh God, my God, I will Thee extol, 
Thy mercies to me are manifold, 
I will of Thy goodness tell, 
For Thou doeth all things well. 

Oh God, my God, that dwells on high. 
Will never poor, unworthy me pass by. 
Thou dost succor me when in need 
And me as well as hungry ravens feed. 

Oh God, my God, of Thee I'll boast, 

Thou art my kind and loving host, 

Thou knowest whereof I stand in need. 

Thou never doth send me away empty when I plead. 

Oh God, my God, in what a deplorable state I'd be, 
If I could not unburden my heart to Thee! 
Oh God, my God, I will bless Thy name, 
Thou never didst me once disdain ! 

PATCHOGUE, FEB. 12TH, 1866. 



PGEMS. 113 



EVES. 



Some rave over black eyes, some die for blue, 
But the truth to tell, do you see; 
It is a pair of dark hazel eyes 
Played the mischief with me. 

The girl that carries those eyes around, 
Has a turn-up nose and her hair is brown; 
That makes no difference to me. 
It is her dark hazel eyes that fascinates me. 

Her ancestral tree I need not ascend 
For I know that it has wax at the other end ; 
'Tis not her station that I am after you see, 
But those dark hazel eyes to solace me. 

Love is a queer thing anyhow, 
So said the old woman when she kissed her cow 
I don't care what people may think or say, 
I'll marry that girl without delay. 

PATCHOGUE, MARCH 6TH 1875. 



114 POEMS. 

A HYMN. 

I know that my Redeemer lives, 

What joy the blest assurance gives! 

He wiil stand on the earth on that great day, 

Then all sorrow and sighing shall flee away. 

Though often worms, this body destroy, 

It shall be quickened again with immortal joy; 

For vears it may slumber beneath the sod, 

It shall rise renewed with all the life of God. 

Though my veins within me be consumed. 

I shall leave the cold dark tomb ; 

When Eden blooms my body will rise. 

And join my soul in Paradise. 

There I shall my Saviour see. 

Who bled and died on Calvary, 

Though often here 1 feel his chastening rod. 

Yet in my flesh I shall see God. 



When you knock for admittance at heaven's door. 

St. Peter will not ask whether you were rich or poor ; 

Nor if you were unlearned or well read, 

Or did you sleep on straw or a downy bed ; 

Nor if you rode in a coach and four, 

Or if you walked till your feet were calloused and 

sore ; 
Nor if you were remembered or forgot. 

Or if you dwelt in a palace or a cot ; 
Only one question will he ask you then, 
"Did you fear God or men?" 



POEMS. 113 



HYMN. 

When scorpion foes and friends assail 
And hope and truth and mercy fail, 
Nor earth, nor ocean hath a lair, 
Then high to heaven raise thy prayer. 

When all earthly props are gone, 

And thou art forsaken and forlorn, 

Then in faith on Israel's God rely, 

He will shelter thee till the storms pass by. 

When thy sorrow is so deep it brings thee low, 
And pent up tears refuse to flow. 
Then pray with all thy power and might, 
And God will surely bring all things right. 

When filled with despair to the brink, 
And thou like Peter of old are beginning to sink, 
Then pray without doubting, the answer will be. 
"My grace is sufficient for thee." 

He who can forgive sin and save the soul 
Doth all our earthly ills control ; 
This promise hath he given to thee, 
"As thy day is so shall thy strength be." 



116 POEMS, 



llONKSl' TOM. 



My friends have often railed at me 

And said that in my brains there was a deficiency ; 

Because I had no tact to acquire t^old. 

Oh, the h)ve of the root of all evil 

Sends many unwise souls to the devil 1 

They know that I worked early and late 

And tried hard to win some favors of fate : 

Yes, I tried long to secure some gold. 

It is a tempting prize ; 

But never could I forget that God had eyes. 

A man who will not take a bribe, nor one give, 

Is generally poor as long as he lives ; 

To receive flattery by this enlightened race, 

A man must scar his conscience and brass his face ; 

A tender conscience is fast going out of fashion ; 

Gold is the god that is worshiped, it is the ruling 

passion. 
I do most fervently my God implore 
To open to me some unseen door; 
I ask not silver nor gold, 
But wisdom and knowledge manifold, 
So that I may do, say or write something 
Before I am dead. 
To show them that I had brains, 
When by my brains they are fed. 



PATCHOGUE, 1883. 



POEMS. 117 



A HYMN. 



Oh, why should I repine 
Or mourn my humble lot, 
When he that owns the universe 
Has never me forgot? 

Oh, why should I repine 

At trials by the way, 

When he who spoke this world from naught, 

Has said, "I will wipe all tears away?" 

Oh, why should I repine 
Because the rich treat me with scorn. 
When for him who reigns above, 
They plaited a crown of thorns? 

Oh, why should I repine 
At meagre fare or purse. 
When he who reigns above 
Endured hunger, cold and thirst? 

Oh, why should I repine 
Or think menial work unmeet, 
When he who reisfns above " 
Washed hisdesciples feet? 

PATCHOGUE, AUGUST 1870. 



118 POEMS. 



AUNT MARCRF/rrE H UTC! I INCSOX. 

Aunt Margrette is getting old 
But is very kind and clever; 
She has a notion of her own 
That she will marry, never. 

The artful men come smiling round 
With words as sweet as honey, 
She says they don't know what love is, 
Thev love her home and money. 

She says that she will live in peace, 
No man shall be her master, 
She will take her snuff and drink her tea, 
iVnd die some fine day of laughter. 



MV COUSIN KATE. 

Dear cousin Kate, I miss thee. 

Thy absence I deplore ; 

I have no friend to share my joy or grief, 

As thou didst heretofore. 

My cousin Kate, I miss thee, 

And thy cheering hopeful words 

Oftimes new life in me inspired. 

My inmost soul hast stirred. 

My cousin Kate, I miss thee, 

I was loath with thee to part. 

Though thou art far off removed. 

Thy image is enshrined in my heart. 



PATCHOGUE, 1879. 



POEMS, 119 



MY UNCLE GARRKTTE. 



Fortune is sure to frown on me 
No matter how hard I try ; 
Sometimes I lay my burdens down 
And take a good old cry. 

When tears and sighs have given relief 

I take it up amain, 

And with redoubled energ}^ 

Dame fortune I court again. 

I eat the bread of carefulness 
Few hours I take for rest, 
But my purse is never full, 
I am with want oppressed. 

Although my purse is never full 
And fortune o'er throws my plans, 
If folks never say that I am rich. 
They do say that I am an honest man. 



HAPPY THOUGHTS. 

The sun is going down behind the hills. 

Twilght will soon be o'er, 

And I am sitting here alone, 

Within this pleasant bower ; 

I muse and think of those I love, 

That here I shall see no more. 

And of our joyous meeting 



120 POEMS. 



When 1 land on the evergreen shore; 

I long for that home of the blest, 

Here my sorrow finds no end, all is unrest, 

There eare, turmoil and strife will eease 

And Christ will preside the Prinee of Peaee ; 

1 languish and pine to go, 

To that eountry where peace forever flows ; 

There doubts and fears cannot me oppress ; 

There I shall find rest, eternal rest ; 

Oh what a change it will be for me, 

When I have crossed life's troubled sea, 

To leave this hull, weatherbeaten and riven, 

And embrace those I loved agfain in heaven ! 



POEHS. 121 



BROKEN IDOL . 

What heart so sad as mine, 

Its idol broken on its shrine? 

Filled with blighted hopes and bitter wrongs, 

It o'erfiows with dismal song. 

Cheer up, cheer up my sorrowing heart. 

Thou of earth's ills must have thy part ! 

There will be rest for the poor weary eyes, 

In that bright land beyond the skies ; 

Look aloft feeble body, sorely thou art tried, 

One promise will not fail thee, the Lord will provide. 

Be cheerful, for I have often heard say. 

That the darkest hour of night is just before the day. 

Though wrecked with pain, wait patiently. 

Soon the balm of Gilead will be given thee ; 

Honest hands, hadst notthou been unused to wrongs. 

Thou never would have penned this song. 



122 POEMS. 



TIIK OLD IIOMKSTKAn. 

That dear old house by the roadside 
With its moss covered roof so slant and high, 
It is the place where I vv^as born, 
'Tis there I hope to die. 

That dear old house and around 
Seems sacred unto me. 
For there my worthy father 
First felled the forest tree. 

That dear old house ! It has withstood 
The storms of many years, 
Although it is weather beaten. 
Its not a whit less dear. 

As o'er the past my memory strays, 
Each childhood scene doth rise. 
My heart then fills near breaking. 
And tears bedim my eyes. 

That dear, old-fashioned home, 
I shall love it alway, 
For there my precious mother 
First taught me how to pray. 

Those grand weeping willows 
That cast their shades around; 
The birds are singing in their bows, 
Oh, how I love the sound ! 

There is not a spot upon this earth 
Could so enchain iny heart, 



POEMS. 123 

For at one thought of leaving, 
The tears will quickly start. 

I love the very stones upon the ground, 
Each shrub both low and high, 
And the little crystal brook 
That is running slowly by. 

Kings and Queens are welcome 
To all thats grand and showey, 
But give me my dear old forest home 
And I'll be in my glory. 

A palace with all its splendors 

Would as nothing seem to me, 

For my heart and thoughts would wander back, 

My dear old home, to thee ! 



PATCHOGUE, JUNE UTH. 1876. 



124 POMES 



A VAI.KN'IINE. 

Years ago, m}' dear John D 

You sent a valentine to me ; 

Laid within its fold so neat 

Was a moss rose and some heads of wheat ; 

I placed that love token 

In a frame behind a glass 

And have kept it as a sacred 

Memento of the past. 

I have lived in hopes the time would be, 

When you and I would both be free ; 

Oh, how I hate cruel fate. 

Because it you and I did separate ! 

John, you never knew 

How my heart has yearned for you. 

Your feelings since then may have changed. 

But mine has not, they are just the same. 



A SINNER S CONFESSION. 

My God, I have Thy goodness proved, 

Thou art without a flaw ; 

Before I was chastised 

I could not understand Thy law. 

I was a crooked twig, 

But thou would have me straight; 

Oh, how unreconciled was I ! 

I thought my heart would break. 

Thou didst take my choicest limbs 



POEMS. 125 

Until every one was gone ; 

No earthly power could soothe my grief 

I was so stripped and shorn. 

As o'er me the cloud of vengeance stood, 

I tried to read Thy book ; 

Quick as the lightnings flash it said 

"Why don't you upwards look?" 

I fell upon my knees and pr^vyed, 

Looked tremblingly to heaven ; 

There my Saviour smiling stood ; 

He vSaid I was forgiven. 

He gave me heavenly light, 

It did my mind illumine ; 

Then clearly I saw the reason why 

I had been so closely pruned. 



When I survey the past 

And think on youthful days, 

My heart in silent prayer ascends 

To Him that kept my ways. 

My sands of life are running fast, 

Soon the last ones will have past ; 

Then repentence will be too late — 

Earth and I must separate ; 

My spirit it must upwards rise. 

To join its giver in the skies ; 

My body will sleep in mother earth, 

Until my redeemer calls it forth. 

PATCHOGUE, MAY 2ND, 1S71. 



126 POMES. 



LOVEl.V P:VES so ISKKiHT. 

The morn may forget 
To unbar the gates of light, 
But I never, never can forget 
Those lovely eyes so bright. 
The sun may forget to shine 
And withold its genial light, 
But I never, never can forget 
Those lovely eyes so bright. 
The moon may forget 
That it is empress of the night, 
But I never, never can forget 
Those lovely eyes so bright. 
■ The stars maj^ forget 
To cheer the dreariness of the night, 
But I never, never can forget 
Those lovely eyes so bright. 

The lamb may forget, and after the wolf pursue 
In its innocent delight, 
But I never, never can forget 
Those lovely eyes so bright. 



POEHS. 127 



THE SINNERS FRIEND. 

JesUvS Christ the son of God, 

When on this sin cursed earth he trod, 

Did he own land? No not a rod. 

Poverty and suffering was his lot. 

Gold and silver he had not ; 

Poorly clad and scantily fed, 

He had not where to lay his head ; 

Because they thought him of lowly birth 

The masses considered him of little worth ; 

He, the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, 

Was scoffed at by the ungodly hords ; 

He saw a ransom must be given 

To appease the wrath of heaven. 

He took upon him human woes. 

That fallen man might find repose. 

On sinfull man Gods face did frown. 

But Jesus laid his glory down. 

He said, "Father let this suffice, 

I will be thy sacrifice." 

He healed the sick and raised the dead. 

The hungry with bread and fish were fed ; 

To sightless eyes he gave them sight, 

He calmed the raging sea at night ; 

The winds and waves were at his will ; 

He said, "be calm" and they were still. 

He was a man of sorrow and acquainted with grief, 

And planned redemption for our relief ; 

Laid down his life and received it again. 



128 POEHS. 

And now the advocate of sinners reigns. 

The earth is his footstool, high heaven his throne 

The humble believer he will never disown ; 

His name through all ages shall ring. 

He died the Godman and rose a King. 

Now he is exalted to heavens highest estate 

Angels and cherubims on him do wait. 

Oh, endless theme! oh, boundless love! 

To leave those realms of bliss above, 

And on the cross he said with a smile, 

"My father and" sinners are reconciled." 

PATCHOOUE, APRIL 18TH, 1872. 



POEMS. 129 



SPRING. 



The sun is coming north, 
Once more the welkin rings 
With little birds that sing for joy 
Again to welcome Spring. 

The icy bands that bound the brooks 
The sun has broke in twain ; 
Now they go gushing forth 
To welcome Spring again. 

The ivys their leaves have unfurled 
Their blossoms too are seen. 
Now they send forth their sweet perfume 
Again to welcome Spring. 

The sportive lambs do run and skip 
Upon the grass so green ; 
All nature smiles with life anew 
Who does not welcome Spring? 



130 POEMS. 



JKSUS OK NAZAkK'lII. 



Who was it, when I was stripped and shorn 

And those I loved from me were torn, 

And I spent my days and nights in sighs and groans 

Until reason was well nigh dethroned, 

Said that he would be my friend. 

And the comforter to me he would send. 

And that the sorrows of earth would have an end. 

But I must be reconciled to God, 

That it was for my good he sent the rod? 

It was Jesus of Nazareth. 

When friends refused a listening ear. 

Or to drop one sympathizing tear. 

And unfeelingly on the other side passed by, 

Who was it then that did me espy, 

Ckme and listened to all I had to say 

And gently wiped my tears away. 

Told me that what w^as mysterious here to me 

Would all be explained in eternity? 

It was Jesus of Nazareth. 

When I was tossed from shoal to shoal 

And a longing for death had seized my soul, 

Who was it said, "cheerup, your anchor will hold,"' 

And snatched me from the grip of despair 

And told me about a country fair. 

That the tried ones of earth were sure to get there? 

It was Jesus of Nazareth. 



POEMS. 131 

When I stood on the brink of Hell, 

And my hand a deadly poison held, 

Who was it soothed my over-taxed brain, 

And heavens dealings with me explained. 

And said that for me he once was slain. 

But through tribulations deep I would heaven gain? 

It was Jesus of Nazareth. 

Then the enemy came on like a flood 

And I could not his fury long withstood, 

Who was it said, "little heart be brave," 

And at once His standard raised, 

Gave me a helmet, sword and shield 

To drive the enemy from the field? 

It was Jesus of Nazareth. 

Who said that he would show my feet the way, 

And in life and in death he would be my stay. 

But I must fight and pray and pray and fight 

And stand for truth with all my might. 

That his grace was sufficient for me, 

If I was faithful to the end I would conquerer be? 

It was Jesus of Nazareth. 

PATCHOGUEi JUNE 2ND, 1876. 



132 POEMS. 



4 
TRlliUTE TO MV BROTHER, IJREWSTER SMl'Ill, DIED 

OCTOBER 1 6th, 1840. 

That dear old bell upon the shelf, 
How oft I have heard its call ! 
And when a little youngster, 
I'd scamper through the hall. 

And to the dining room would hie. 
Then seek my little chair 
And seated by my father's side, 
What knew I then of care? 

There was no empty seat, 
For we were all at home ; 
We were a happy family 
And had no wish to roam. 

Yes, we were all there. 
Father, mother, sisters and brothers, 
We sought each others happiness 
For we all loved one another. 

M}^ father asked God's blessing, 
My mother poured the tea, 
And our childhoods years were spent 
In sweet felicity. 

But cruel death, it did invade 
Our peaceful, happy home; 
It slew the pride of our flock 
And laid him in the tomb. 



POEMS. 1 33 

That empty chair that's for him set, 

He never more will fill ; 

Death made the breach so wide 

None save God can mend or has the skill. 

But we have one cheering thought 
That helps to dry the tears ; 
In heaven above we hope to meet 
Our brother dear. 

PATCHOGUE, JULY 4TH, 187S. 



MEMORIAL TO MY HUSBAND, DR. JOHN LOUTHIAN 
ROBERTS. 

Oh John, dear departed shade ! 

Most twenty-eight years hast thou lain in the grave. 
Why I lived or how I lived I do not know, 
After receiving such a heavy blinding blow. 

My love and pride in thee found full scope, 
Death put a period to thy life and all my hopes ; 
And all aircastles and plans that we had laid 
Were demolished and hid in the depths of the grave. 

I never can forget that bright May morn 
Thou wentest away with that patriotic throng ; 
Manfully didst thou respond to thy country's call, 
Laid everything upon its altar — thy life, thy all. 



134 POMES. 

To-da\' I visited thy resting place for an hour 
And saw thy comrades strew thy grave with flowers ; 
The flag thou didst prize and hold so dear — 
A new one waves o'er thy head each year. 

Oh John, the idol of my soul ! 
Dost thou niy loneliness behold? 
When a few more short years have flown, 
I shall join thee in yon bright home. 

When sleep relieves my loneliness 
In pleasant dreams thou dost me caress; 
But when the morning brings the light 
Thou dost gently vanish from my sight. 

My John, dear departed shade ! 

Erelong I shall near thee be laid; 

True love can never die, 

It is born of immortality; 

Although thou art on high and I on earth 

Our love had an immortal birth. 

PATCHOGUE, MAY 30TH,1893. 



POEHS. 135 



A POOR CHRISTIAN. 



Why do I want to stay 

On this terrestrial ball ? 

Here the rich own all the land, 

And the poor have none at all. 

They are self sufhcient 

Forgetting God on high ; 

On their houses and their lands, 

They do confidingly rely. 

My greatest fault is poverty, 

Oft-times I have been told, 

By the owners of the sod 

Whose only God is gold. 

I know across the stream, 

My Saviour smiling stands 

Saying, "you weary child come home, 

And claim the promised land." 

There I would have a home 

That on earth to me is denied; 

There freed from care and sorrow dwell 

Close to my Saviours side ; 

There is a house not made with hands 

For me to occupy ; 

Why do I cling to earth ? 

Why do I fear to die? 

PATCHOGUE, APRIL 13TH, 1870. 



136 POME 



TO -rilF. CLKRGV. 



Rare are the times in whieh we live, 

The preachers cry is give, give, give! 

He comes to us with his cane and kids, 

Saying, "make ready a mansion that I may live." 

His wardrobe niust be elaborate in every way, 

For the which we have to pay. 

His table must groan with viands rare. 

Who sweats to provide them he does not care. 

When he makes his debut you may be sure 

He will give us all a call, the rich and the poor. 

His first visit o'er I tell you what. 

The poor does not claim his attention after that. 

His sermons are stale, devoid of power, 

Preaches and prays in less than an hour. 

He rattles off both at a rapid gait 

Giving ample time to pass the plate. 

His paramount thoughts are not about our souls. 

But in lieu how much money will those plates hold. 

Then he speaks as one having authority, 

"If you have been converted give freely to me 

And if you would make sure heaven to gain 

Why should a cent in your purse remain?" 

He wants the homage that we should to Jehovah pay 

And pockets all he can get in an off-hand way. 

His wife and children must be dreseed in style, 

To clothe them all it costs a pile, 

And to educate and pamper his progeny, 

Is draining our purses dry you see. 



POEMS. 13 7 

The majority of tliem are an unscrupulous lot 

And the world would be better if they were not. 

A set of pompous self-sufficient men, 

And the Bible says that God hates them.. 

It never troubles them who lives or who dies, 

But their hearts yearn for flattery, 'tis a precious 

morsel in their eyes. 
A part of one commandment they keep it is true, 
Be diligent in business, they have ever in view. 
'Tis generally the poor in every land 
That keeps the residue of that command. 
In all civilized countries the market is glut with 

men 
That have been educated to preach, but God never 

called them ; 
All of them expect to receive wealth and fame, 
But care nothing about an untarnished name ; 
To lazy to work, spurning honest toil, 
Disdaining the favours that ever on industry smiles, 
Think it a great condecerision when 
They shake the honest hands of working men ; 
Boors they are to parents and society, I'll tell you 

why. 
Not worthy to live and unfit to die. 
Men that do not fear God and work here below, 
Erelong they and their names will into oblivion go. 
Worldlings know when the man of God preaches, 
That he was called of God and practices what he 

teach e's. 
And that he fears a wonder working God 



138 POEMS. 

By doing his will and trembling at his word. 
He is taught of God imbued with his spirit 
And a crown immortal will be gi\'en him as a re- 
ward of merit. 

OATCHOGUE, AUGUST 22ND, 1RR2. 



POEMS. 139 



PATCHOGUE. 



As I am always travelling arouad, 

From going to and fro, walking up and down, 

Not one unemployed moment have I to spare. 

I am the prince of the power of the air ; 

I note all that transpires on earth. 

Each mortal's death and each mortal's birth ; 

Notwithstanding my unceasing care 

A little wheat grows among my tares. 

In Patchogue some of my loyal subjects dwell. 

They are not eyeservants, they do my work well ; 

'Tis there my tares prolific grow 

And a blade of wheat doth seldom show. 

The dwellers in this oasis of mine 

Serve me with all their hearts and a willing mind ; 

When the old veterans leave the stage 

The youngsters they have trained are of age ; 

About my ranks I have not a fear 

For they are increasing every year ; 

Eighty years ago it was an insignificant place 

No drunkards or fighters, there was little to my taste 

I had not thought it worth while to give it a look, 

In fact it was not registered in my book. 

The scene changed and I tell you what. 

Day began to dawn for me in the way of sots. 

After my faithful servant, Thimbleriger Czar, 

Built a gin mill and opened a bar ; 



140 P0J1.MS. 

If Patchoguers will not repent they will drink to 
their sorrow. 

Refilled the same cup that was drained by (iomor- 
rah . 

She has her deacons, alas what a lot ! 

Their bodies will be buried and their names will 
rot ; 

They are filled with averice and strife, the truth to 
tell, 

A says of B's going- to heaven, he wants to go to 
hell. 

Her mother was an unchast dame, father an unlaw- 
ful sire, 

Begotten on a bed defiled she clings to muck and 
mire. 

Having serious apprehensions of not reaching heav- 
en, 

She has occasionally built a church until their num- 
ber is seven. 

When the Baptists spread the Lord's table it is fair 
to view, 

But not a crumb of bread or one drop of wine for 
you ; 

They are very particular and their creed is this, 

"Hands ofl: unless you are an immersed Baptist." 

They and they only are going into the fold. 

And leave those that look on out iii the cold. 

When the Lord's table is spread by the Catholics, 

If you do not believe just as they do you are a here- 
tic; 



POEMS. 141 

If you go there hungry you will return as you went, 

They and they only will enter heaven, all others 
are hell bent. 

When the Congregationalists spread the Lord's ta- 
ble it is free ; 

They pass the bread and wine about. 

If any e'at and drink damnation to their souls 

They must see to that, it is their own lookout. 

When the Episcopalians the Lord's table spread 

They invite if you feel to partake, there is nothing 
said ; 

They take it for granted that you have a care 

About things eternal or you would not be there. 

When the Methodists the Lord's table spreads 

The more that comes the better all are fed. 

They don't trouble themselves about what you vSay 
or do 

If their dollars increase and the church members 
too. 

Protestants and Catholics have been quarreling for 
years 

And it has been the cause of much bloodshed and 
tears. 

Catholics believe the Virgin Mary to be the embod- 
iment of godliness, 

Therefore they prostrate themselves and worship a 
Jewess. 



142 POEMS. 

Protestants nearly the same course persue, 

They believe that Christ is all and in all and wor- 
ship a Jew. 

I wish they would shake hands and love each other, 

Be content that the P's should worship the son and 
the C's the mother. 

Mohammedans pray three times every day, 

That Christian sects may quarrel and split away. 

And never realize or become aware. 

That the more they divide the weaker they are. 

And that hatred may blind them so they cannot see. 

What a mighty power united they would be ! 

Oh that God would send an unction from above 

To teach all that the fulfilling of his law is love. 

Patchogue is a shrewd church-g-oino- dame 

She fears not God, trembles not at his name. 

Her object in going to church is the same 

As that of a little dog who runs to a fair. 

To see all the folks and show himself there. 

The appearances kept up by her and her daughter 

Will remain masked until the hereafter. 

Ocean avenue is her pride and daughter ; 

She, too, is filth}^ and prefers rum to water. 

When women are franchised and allowed to vote 
at the polls, 

A period will be put to brewing and rum holes. 

Our country women in one sense are no better than 
slaves. 

They must in silence pay taxes by the laws men 
have made. 

Women would not make such laws as men have made 



POEHS. 143 

That enables father, husband and son to fill a drunk- 
ards grave. 

She has sons, I will omit their names. 
For they never will be engraved on the list of fame ; 
They will not believe it would hinder their plans 
That God's noblest work is an honest, sober man 
The hand of the ready writer will never pen 
Their names in the book of fame where they might 

have been, 
For breaking God's law^s and setting them at naught, 
In lieu of their names there, will be nothing- but 

naughts. 
Her career for nearly a century can be traced 
Cursed with squalor, drunkenness and disgrace, 
Morals mostly bad I have heard it from many. 
Others say 'tis a falsehood, she never had any. 
Her heart has been filled for seventy years 
With horses, cows, bulls, and steers. 
Barns, stables, heaps of seaweed, bunkers and dung. 
No wonder poets were silent andthe muse was dumb. 
Patchogue will never arise and shine 
Until freed from inordinate pride and wine. 
To her shame she boasts as I have been told 
Of eighteen places where intoxicating liquors are 

sold. 
In ten years if men would fear God and give tobac- 
co and rum a lurch. 
They would each have a home and there would be 

no debts on the church. 
The cloak of religion that Patchogue occasionally 
wears, 



144 POEMS. 

Is lined with a material called earth-bound tares. 
May God soon teach her the ways of cleanliness, 
The which are the ways akin to Godliness ; 
Let the tables be turned, may God turn them 
And raise up one man of wisdom to take the helm ; 
May the same spirit that influenced the prophet, 

Nehemiah 
Influence him to change the appearance of Patch- 

oo-ue entire ; 
Let all good citizens acquiesce in the undertaking 
And give the village a thorough good raking; 
Lift the fallen lovers of strong drink up,' 
And from their hands dash the poisonous cup; 
When men do their part God is not slow, 
His favors and blessings to bestow ; 
May he succeed and make rapid headway. 
And teach all to revere God's name and hallow his 

day. 

PATCHOGUE, 1884. 



POEMS. 143 



CUPID. 

Cupid is called the God of love ; 

Perhaps his commission is from above. 

By all the monsters of earth and sea 

I wish that he had never wounded me. 

I cannot see why he should be called the 

God of love for hundreds of years. 

Alas, what mortal has h"e not caused 

To shed some bitter tear? 

I do not believe that he came from the skies, 

But like other rosfues is clothed in diso^uise. 

He is a vicious deceitful elf, 

Makes mortals unhappy to please himself. 

It is danger to flirt and with him play, 

Take heed young lovers to what I say. 

For years he kept full his quiver. 

He often aimed at me but only grazed my liver. 

Alas, one day as I unguardedly strayed. 

Not thinking that cupid would have me at bay. 

He bent his bow and sent a dart 

That pierced my unsuspecting heart. 

He said that long unharmed I had roamed, 

And laughed at lovers sighs and groans. 

Now that you feel true inwardness within 

Cease to call love a carnal sin. 

In lovers pains you will find chat there is a reality. 

For others you have no sympathy. 

"So don't ask for it and get laughed at " quoth he. 



146 POEMS. 

"Those that hinyh and jeer at matrimony as often 

rue, 
It is now the only door left open for you. 
You now know what the pain of lovers means." 
He danced for joy at my chagrin. 
I pled to him, but pled in vain, 
He only laughed at me again, 
And said that I was check-mated at last ; 
I had better go and woo some sprightly lass. 
I begged him .to remove the dart, 
And to heal my wounded heart. 
The pain increasing caused me to cry. 
He gayly clapped his wings and said good-bye. 
I pray you to be on the alert young lover ; 
Cupid unseen around you hovers. 
He is very cruel and has many wiles, 
He'll wound the deepest with his sweet smile. 

PATCHOQUE, NOV. 18TH, 1896. 



POEMS. 147 



THE REV. S. S. HUGHSON. 

The Rev. S. S. Hughson is no hog 

Though he resides in swinish Patchogue ; 

In a few words, his pigish propensities are so small, 

You must needs use a microscope to find them at 
all. 

Surely it was a behest of Heaven's grace 

That sent one unselfish man to reside in this place ; 

Those that are casting darts at him 

Would desist at once if they would look within. 

Soon would the nations learn war no more 

If every man swept before his own door. 

Some of his horrible rebukes are pointed 'tis true; 

I put the coat on when it fits me and so ought you. 

He says a man shall not eat that is not willing to 
labor, 

And 'tis a lazy man that covets what is his neigh- 
bors. 

I was filled with admiration for his style of beg- 
gary when, 

At the top of the list, I saw S. S. Hughson "ten." 

There's not been his like here in a long while, 

He actualy gives alms with a pleasant smile. 

That is almost a new thing under the sun ; 

The reason why is because 'tis so seldom done. 

In these days of Self it is indeed a rarity 

To see a smile accompaning charity. 



148 POEMS. 

Recipients feel the witholding of it when the}^ sue 
I have felt the withdrawal of it, have'nt you? 
Example is preferable to precept by far. 
He works with a will in fair or foul weather. 
Guess his soul and pocket-book were converted to- 
gether. 
May his garments always be spotless and white, 
'Tis the best cherries that little birds like. 

PATCHOGUE, JUNE 24TH. 1873. 



POEMS. 149 



LINES ON RECEIVING A HAMPER OF CHOICE GROCER- 
IES FROM THE CITY OF NEW YORK. 

You knew that I was weak and nervous too, 

Its self evident to me ; 

So God put it in your hearts 

To send in this black tea. 

Who sent these fruits so rare and choice, 
So many miles to me? 

Be sure that Heaven will send you more, 
Because you thought of me. 

Who sent these cans of rarities 
I want to know further of thee? 
The tears run down my cheeks 
When I those things did see. 

My heart with gratitude is filled, 

I thank you o'er and o'er, 

And may your shadows never grow less 

Oh, what can I vsay more ! 

PATCHOGUE, MARCH 16,1367 



150 POIlMS. 

rilK SONG OK rilK DISHCLOTH MOST AFKKCTIOXATE- 
LV DEDICATED TO AUNT EREELOVE EU K.MAN. 

Jndginjj-, dear friend, that you will not balk, 

And now and then you like plain talk. 

One thing I'll tell you, and it is this. 

The dishcloth you sent was welcome and not amiss. 

It is one of the most useful things under the sun, 

Proper housekeeping without it could not be done. 

Fools may prate, but the wise will say 

That it is an indespensible article every day. 

Let slatterns deny its potent power 

And gossip from house to house, hour after hour; 

Our dishcloths into requisition w^e will fetch. 

And prove that all clean housewives are not dead 

yet. 
The inventress has been dead without doubt for 

centuries; 
Shame on her ungrateful progeny. 
That no monument has been raised to perpetuate 

her memory. 
Had she been a man, with indignation I burn, 
Why in every street, at every turn. 
Would have been erected a monument, bust or urn ; 
But a benefactress lies neglected, in fact spurned. 
I have the will, if I had the power, 
Why in the space of one short hour; 
One of mammoth proportions should arise, 



POEMS. 151 

Inscribed, "The Dishcloth Inventress, here she 

lies," 
And that she was as clean and good as she was wise, 
If dishcloths should annihilated be. 
What would good housewives do without them 

prithee ? 
With all their dirty, greasy crockery. 
In a sorrowful plight indeed ! Ah me ! 
Your eyes are blue, your hair is light. 
May you raise the fallen and stand for the right, 
And all your days may you sweetly sing 
My dishcloths have been my most useful thing. 
These lines have run swiftly from my pen, 
Harmless is a little nonsense now and then ; 
Perhaps my pen might have been employed in a 

nobler strain, 
Alas most all earthly endeavors prove futile and 

vain. 

PATOHOGUEi DEC 4TH, 1873 



152 POEMS. 



LINES WKllTKN ON RhX;KIVING AN M'RON FROM A 
FRIKNl). 

Politicians may boast and statesmen spout, 

But the usefulness of an apron they know nothing 

about. 
Take averice and pride out of some men 
Onlv a dark shadow remains of them. 
What have poets been thinking' and scribbling about, 
That in all their writings the apron has been left 

out? 
Most assuredly they were fools, or half crazed. 
Not one imp of them ever panned a word in its 

praise, 
It was not an oversight, they cannot me deceive, 
They were jealous because it was invented by Eve. 
Did Adam spurn aprons? No, without doubt 
Eve kept him in good aprons till he was wornout. 
He never would have possessed one, but for Eve, 
He never would have thought of sewing the leaves. 
Eve was charming, the original belle, 
In Eden she wove a wondrous spell. 
She was charming and fair to view, 
The serpent beguiled her and Adam proved untrue. 
The serpent came smiling, a lie on his tongue. 
Has been the father of lies since the world begun ; 
He came cringing and fawning to her on the sly, 
Saying, "eat dearest Eve, you shall not die," 



•POEHS. 153 

Swift retribution came, he was driven to the wall ; 

He and his posterity were doomed on their bellies to 
crawl. 

Eve was given a promise then and there 

That his head should be bruised by the heel of her 
heir. 

It was to a woman so charming to view 

That God made the first promises too. 

Notwithstanding she was pure as the snow and fair 
to view, 

She had to contend with a man and the serpent too. 

Adam ate that apple with a right good will. 

The core stuck in his throat and it sticks in the 
throats of his posterity still. 

He was driven out of Eden on the crest of a turbu- 
lent wave 

And he never found rest till he was laid in his grave. 

It is hard for men to kick against the pricks ; 

Eve had and always will have the best end of the 
stick. 

Dear friend, do not listen to bigots and fools ; 

God teaches lessons that are not taught in schools. 

Those that jeer at aprons had better have a care. 

For they were worn in Eden by the first mortal pair. 

Thanks for the one I have just received. 

I am nothing more or less than a daughter of Eve. 

I hope that when this world is cleansed from sin 

That you and I w411 be permitted to enter In, 

And if Mother Eve has two aprons to give, 

vShe will bestow one on Bet and the other on Lib- 

PATCHOGUE, NOV. 30TH, 1870. 



154 POEMS. 



AN OLD IIKN. 

A prudent old hen has striven for years, 

Hoped against hope midst doubts and fears, 

To find some nook in the world so wide 

Where ill luck will not all her eggs betide. 

She lays as faultless eggs as ever were seen, 

Sometimes in the barn, sometimes on the green. 

Sometimes in the weeds, sometimes in the maice. 

But in vain she seeks for a hiding place. 

If she builds hsr nsst under ths cribs 

Or under the porch where her master lives. 

She is hustled about in a sorrowful way. 

The more she strives to set the more she is kept at 

bay. 
Why don't she set? Her hinderers say, 
■'We just as live she would set as lay." 
Silently she listens to their oily speech ? 
Knowing she would not have a roost or a head if 

she preached. 
Though impediments beset her of every kind, 
Setting is her theme, it enchains her mind. 
How can she accomplish setting, pray 
When each day her eggs are stolen away? 
Conquer she must, for she perseveres. 
Looks aloft, sheds not a tear, 
Yields uncomplaining to the powers that be. 
And bides her time patiently. 
She is never seen out after dark. 
Rises each morning with the lark ; 
She is worth her weio-ht in gold I ween, 
For the good example she sets for men. 



POEMS. 155 

A wise man said that hope defered 

Makes the heart sick, it is true every word. 

Nobly does she act her part, 

Though the clouds lower, faith props her heart. 

By perseverance, lo, what do we see ! 

Tis the uncouth leaves of the mulberry tree, 

By perseverance at the appointed time 

They are turned into silks of the costliest kind. 

Persevere old hen in foul or fair weather, 

God careth for thee, he numbereth thy feather; 

Sampson with the bone of an ass put ten thousand 

to flight 
There is nothing like perseverance when you know 

you are right ; 
Still persevere, your time will come 
And your chicks will number a goodly sum. 

PATCHOGUE, AUG. 11TH, 187R. 



156 POEMS. 



96TH rsALM. 
Sing unto the Lord a new song, 
Sing unto him all the earth ! 
For Zion when she travails 
Will renovate the earth. 

Show forth his salvation 
And sing from day to day ; 
Extol the rock of ages 
That vv^ill never pass away. 

The idol Gods of nations 
Shall shortly pass away ; 
Declare his wonders to the heathen 
And ail homage to him pay. 

Honor and majesty are before him, 
Tune well your harps, your lamps well trim 
Let all glory and praises to him be given, 
He is the Lord that made the heavens. 

Give unto the Lord the glory due, 
His name is great, of Him I'll sing, 
And an offering for sin 
Into his courts I will daily bring. 

Say unto the heathen the Lord doth reign. 
The world he will establish in his name ; 
It shall not be moved and all shall see 
That he will judge his people righteously. 

Then the heavens will rejoice 
And the earth will be glad ; 
Not one thing that then exists 
Will in any way be sad. 



POEMS. 157 

Let the sea roar and the fullness thereof, 
The fields be joyful and the woods rejoice ; 
For he will judge the earth with truth and right- 
eousness, 
And fill all hearts with perfect peace and bliss. 

PATCHOGUE, JUNE 6TH. 1874. 



AN EXPERIENCE. 

Come in my child the air is damp, 

The wind it blows a gale ; 

Pray what are you gazing at. 

You look both wan and pale. 

Tis strange that yonder silent star 

That illumes the western sky 

Should have the power to sooth my brain, 

Ajid stop my long drawn sighs : 

But so it is my friend, 

It oft has cast a spell on me, 

And for hours I forget all care 

In a blissful reverie. 

My spirit seems to leave this clay, 

And wing and wing itself away. 

I don't know how but I get there, - 

Far, far away to that beautiful star; 

I enter the gate, it stands ajar, 

And John is waiting to welcome me in. 

He dwells there, is happy and free from sin. 

Mother is there too, she is not old ; 

How lovely she looks with that crown of gold ! 



158 POEMS. 

To-night she clasped me in her arms 
And I told her I was done with the worlds alarms; 
Not so she said, Betty my child. 
You cannot stay here but a little while. 
You must hie thee back to earth again : 
You would not be happy could you remain, 
Your work is not finished go back and do all 
That God bids you, great things or small. 
Mother I cannot leave you or say good-bye, 
I wept on earth till the fountain of tears was dry. 
Your return to earth again is needful my child, 
Strength will be given you to bear its ills awhile ; 
At the time appointed you shall return, 
Never again to sigh or mourn ; 
Mother and husband will watch and wait 
To give you an everlasting w^elcome at the golden 
gate. 

PATCHOGUE, MAY 23RD, 1866. 



P0BM8. 139 



FATHER S REQUEST. 



When I have lived my alloted time 

And my spirit has returned to that peacefdl clime. 

One request my friends, I ask of ye, 

Let my funeral from ostentation be free. 

What your loving hearts would prompt you to thus 

expend, 
Distribute among my needy friends. 
Do not annul the solemnity of death by show ; 
My body came from the earth, to the earth it must go 
To be food for worms and moulder away, 
It is corruptible clay, nothing but clay ; 
Nor have steeds caparisoned with flaunting plumes 
To convey me prancing to the silent tomb, 
Nor a hearse emblazoned with gilt and paint. 
Silver plated trapings gay and quaint. 
What is highly esteemed by mortal man, 
Is an abomination in the sight of the immortal 

great I Am. 

, PARCHOUUE, FEB 24TH, 1875. 



160 POEMS, 



STOP THAT Mil. I. — TO M. CKEtl.V, ES(^ 

Mr. Editor, dear sir, is it true, 

Or only hearsay, 

Are the Yankees manufacturing Smiths by steam, 

Are they really under way? 

If so they are shortsighted, 

Smiths everywhere are found, 

Their mill must at once be stopped 

Or there will not be standing ground. 

Do send that company word to stop 

Or they will most assuredly collapse. 

Our country is already over run 

With Smiths both white and black ; 

If they will not be advised, its soon they will bewail. 

Their investments will not pay. 

Why Smiths are the most prolific tribe 

On earth in a natural way ! 

If they will try theirjuck at Bchurs 

I am sure they would do well. 

For in the city of churches 

Without discount its quickly they would sell. 

If they strike out on Bchurs 

One specialty do not forget, 

Let their memories be poor 

So if they are accused they cannot recollect ; 

And their consciences be tough, 

If the truth they will not remember. 

Faster in Brooklyn they would sell 

Than coals in cold December. 

Give them hearts to love and feel 

True inwardness within, 



POEHS. 161 

And to embrace another's wife 

Is not a carnal sin ; 

Also a mind in summer time, 

A birds nesting to roam, 

With some angelic sister of the church 

And leave their wives at home. 

I hope that company will take heed 

And comply with your advice, 

For Bchurs are scarce and 

Will bring a good price. 

If they refuse, one thing I know 

They soon say, dear father we feel so so. 

The Smiths are a heterogeneous set. 

Not dearly bought or far fetched ; 

Will germinate and grow in any clime. 

There is nothing in a Smith oratorical or sublime. 

Most Smiths and Bchurs, be it said to their shame, 

Live too long, because they outlive a good name. 

PATCHOGUE, MAY 22ND, 1887. 



162 POEMS, 



TRUTH. 

Truth how glorious thou art ! 

Though despised in worldly marts, 

The wise at glance can see, 

All that is pure centers in thee. 

Yes thou art lovely, surpassing fair, 

And dost breathe immortal air. 

A mortal needs no stronger tower, 

For thou wilt outlive the dying hour; 

And thy source will never run dry, 

The great eternal is thy supply. 

Those that buy of thee and sell it not 

Are beloved of God and never forgot. 

When the stars, moon and sun have run their race, 

Thou wilt move with the same grand noble grace. 

All those that strove to annihilate thee 

vShall be trodden under the feet of those that fol- 
low thee. 

Thou art beautiful, par-excellent. 

Filled with thee there is no discontent. 

Without thee every evil plan is laid. 

Men devoid of thee are cowards that the world call 
brave. 

How oft have they bruised and trailed thee in the 
dust! 

But thou wilt survive them all for thou art just. 

If thy presence grace the lowliest cot. 

It is greater than all palaces where thou art not. 

The breast that holds thee for its guest 

Is supremely and divinely blest. 



POEMS. 163 

Weighed in the balance they will know no fear, 

Truth will not be found wanting but in for a share. 

All thy attributes are glorious to behold : 

Thou dost eclipse all gems, silver or gold, 

All is a void that is lacking in truth, 

'Tis a pavillion for the aged and an armour for 

the youth. 
It's favor is gained by obsdience, 
Those that posess it have a sure defence. 
When fire shall renovate this terrestial ball, 
Truth and its followers will stand undismayed, un- 

appaled. 

PATOHOGUE, SEPT. 12TH, 1893. 



